


One Life Stand

by roamingbadger



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Background Aragorn/Arwen - Freeform, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kiwis please forgive me for my sins, Middle Earth is New Zealand, Modern AU, One Night Stand, background Legolas/Gimli, canon character death, emphasis on the comfort, mention of past unrequited Éowyn/Aragorn, non-graphic scene of a mare giving birth, plot yes plot, porn with plot?, they're veterinarians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2020-11-28 21:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20973062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roamingbadger/pseuds/roamingbadger
Summary: “Come in,” said a low, melodic tenor, and Éowyn’s heart leapt to her throat. She knew that voice. She’d heard that voice in her dreams for the last few nights.*What better way to bid farewell to her old life than a one night stand with a perfect stranger? Éowyn and Faramir meet in a Wellington pub right before her move to a new job, a new city, a new start. The last thing she expects is to see him again on her first day at work . . . when Pippin introduces her to her new boss.





	1. Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> _I only want to be your one life stand_  
_Tell me do you stand by your man_  
\- Hot Chip, "One Life Stand"

_Wouldn’t it be nice to be a man, _thought Éowyn. All she wanted to do was treat herself to a post-packing beer at the local pub two blocks down, but of course it was Saturday and approaching ten in the evening. She really shouldn’t go there alone. Meanwhile her roommate Merry was God-knew-where and probably wouldn’t be home until three.

It was unfair.

She labelled her last box in black marker and stood to survey the room. Gone were the photos she’d taped up on the wall, good memories of herself and Éomer on their uncle’s property, wrestling in the late evening sun. Just looking at the empty places where the photos had once been gave her a twinge of heartache. She could still remember those days as if they were yesterday. But she hadn’t been home to Edoras in several months. Not since Théoden’s funeral.

No, screw it, she decided. She would get that beer.

She grabbed her favorite cardigan, a wooly blue one, and pulled it over her blouse. March meant the onset of autumn and the arrival of crisp, cool air. Her hair was coming loose from its long blonde braid, but she hardly cared. She wasn’t planning to talk to anyone. She would just get her beer, drink it at the bar, and leave.

The Wellington waterfront was bustling with its Saturday night crowd, locals leaving restaurants and tourists eating ice creams beneath the harbor lights. Éowyn savored the breeze blowing in from the sea as she walked, digging her hands deep into her sweater pockets. She would be sad to leave this place, she decided. And she had no idea what awaited her on the South Island. That was part of why she was leaving.

Always onto the next adventure. She could practically hear the words in her brother’s loving yet resigned voice. Éomer was too dedicated to Edoras to ever leave it.

Whereas she might never go back.

Éowyn reached her favorite Irish pub a moment later. As she ducked inside, the bartender gave her a nod of welcome. The bar was surprisingly empty for a Saturday night, though a few tables in the dining area were still clustered with people. It wasn’t until Éowyn sat down that she noticed the other patron, a man leaning over half a beer two seats away.

_He’s handsome_, she thought, before she could help it. He had dark hair caught between red and black—long, for a man—and the beginnings of a rusty beard. He was lean but well-built, with wide shoulders that strained against his dark green sweater. She had just prepared herself to stop looking and order her beer when he glanced sideways at her, and her heart stuttered in her chest. _Those eyes. _They were gray-blue and melancholy like the sea on stormy days, and they saw entirely too much of her.

No, she thought. She was going crazy. She felt as if they brushed through layers of clothing to her very skin, but that was nonsense. Merely the result of having lived a celibate life for the past couple of years. That was all.

His gaze seemed to catch and linger on her, an unreadable look behind his stare, before he turned back and began fiddling with his beer.

“I’ll have a pale ale,” Éowyn told the bartender, who nodded and went to fetch her drink. She was glad that her voice sounded as steady as it did. Something about the stranger had unsettled her, and her heartbeat still pounded in her ears.

When her beer arrived, frothy and frosted, the first few sips distracted her. But she soon found herself glancing sideways again. The stranger was ripping up his coaster, now, making a pile of shriveled paper next to his beer. The bartender gave him a dirty look, but the man was too distracted to notice.

Then, horror of horrors, he glanced over as if he felt her gaze on him. She whirled back to her beer, feigning fascination with its rising stream of bubbles. _Did he see? _

“Um. Hello,” he said.

She bit her lip. God. He saw. She swallowed and turned to face him, trying not to flush. “Hi.”

He wore a faint smile, those gray eyes merry and far too alluring. “I’d ask if you want a drinking partner, but I assume you’re waiting for someone . . .?”

Was that an expectant tone she heard? Éowyn was momentarily thrown off by the question. “Oh. No. Not waiting for anyone, no.” God, perhaps she should just get “perpetually single” tattooed on her forehead and move on.

But his smile grew as if she’d given the right answer. “Then . . . do you mind if I . . .” He waved at the two seats between them.

“Right! Not at all. Please.” She fiddled with her glass as he stood from his barstool, bringing his beer with him. His movements were cautious and deliberate, the movements of someone in no hurry and in complete control of his body, and for some reason she found that thought a very sexy one.

_Down, Éowyn. _She felt her face growing hot and took another sip of beer to mask it. As he sat next to her, the faint smell of cedar and herbs followed him, a masculine smell. She tried to remember if she’d put on deodorant that morning.

“Are you celebrating something, or is this your normal Saturday evening routine?” he asked her, shifting slightly on the stool to her left. His knee brushed hers beneath the bar before moving away again. Was that deliberate? She found she wanted it back.

“Celebrating, actually. I’m moving in a few days.”

“Oh. That’s . . . nice.” Why did his face lose some of its glow when he said that? Perhaps she was boring him already. “Where to?”

“South Island,” she said vaguely. “What about you? What brings you here?”

He was staring at his beer. “Just . . . needed to get out.”

“Right.” He looked almost sad as he said it, and she felt a strange urge to reach out and put a hand on his arm. _Remember, Éowyn, be normal. _“What do you think of this place?” she asked, at the same time that he said, “Whereabouts on the South Island?”

She laughed, and he grinned, and some of the melancholy seemed to pass from his face. “It’s nice,” he said, in answer to her question. “Do you come here a lot?”

She nodded. “It’s my favorite pub in town. I like the grumpy bartender, because he’s actually a big softie, and sometimes he’ll scare away the blokes for me if I ask him to.”

The stranger frowned. 

“Not you,” she said quickly, realizing the connotation in her words. “I mean, the blokes I don’t _want _to be talking to.” Jesus, she should be assigned a full-time monitor. “That is . . .”

But he was smiling again, faintly, his gray eyes trailing down her face. Her skin warmed. Was he looking at her lips? She licked them, and his gaze seemed to sharpen on her. Beneath the bar, his leg rubbed against hers again.

Then he looked away, taking a sip of his beer. His hand engulfed his pint glass, large and calloused. So he worked with his hands, then. Another thought that thrilled her. She found herself wanting to know more about him, wanting him to stop looking away.

“Tell me about yourself,” she said.

His eyebrows lifted. He swallowed his sip of beer. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged. “I guess you could tell me your name, to start.”

“Right.” That was definitely the faintest hint of a blush on his cheeks. “It’s Faramir.” He added quickly, “It’s strange, I know. Family thing.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Mine’s Éowyn. Try getting that on your Starbucks cup.”

He smiled. God, he was handsome when he smiled. His eyes crinkled up and the sadness left his face, making him look years younger. She supposed he was a few years older than her, maybe early thirties. Faramir. She let the name turn over in her head.

_Éowyn, what are you doing? _

She couldn’t fall for a man. Not now. Not three days away from her next move. And even without the move, not with the words of her last failed relationship echoing in her ears—if it could even be called a relationship.

_You fell in love with a shadow. _

She took a hasty sip of beer.

“So what else do you want to know?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

“All right,” he said. He watched her solemnly, for so long she began to worry about what he was going to say next. “I like you, Éowyn.”

He could not have surprised her more. He’d known her all of two minutes, and already he was throwing her off with his immediate declarations. Coming from anyone else, it might have been creepy, but this man with his quiet eyes and his steady gaze and his careful control made her feel . . . seen.

“You’re not bad yourself,” she said at last, trying to play it off as a joke.

He gave her a look that said he saw right through her casual attitude. But he took pity on her, saying instead, “All right. Your turn.”

“Is this truth or dare now?”

He shrugged, draining the last of his beer. “Why not?” His eyes sparkled. His leg bumped hers again as he shifted on the barstool. The smell of him filled her nostrils, and all of a sudden she imagined him kissing her under her ear, that beard scratching at the sensitive skin of her neck. Her body’s response was immediate. She pressed her thighs together beneath the bar, wobbling on her barstool.

“Whoa.” He held out a hand to steady her, catching her by the elbow. “You okay?” He shifted her around slightly until she was facing him, their faces mere inches apart.

And despite all the reasons she had _not _to like him, Éowyn found herself thinking, _Fuck it. _

So she leaned forward and kissed him.

He froze, a strangled noise of surprise escaping his lips, but it didn’t take him long to respond, lifting his hands to cup her face. His fingers pressed into her scalp as his lips slanted across hers. God, he tasted amazing. She opened her mouth, and he followed suit, slipping his tongue against hers. Her skin electrified. She could barely breathe.

Then she realized what she was doing and pulled back abruptly. He sat with his hands still cupping her face, his eyes wide, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.

“Sorry,” she whispered. Her cheeks grew so hot she was afraid they might burn his hands. But he didn’t remove them.

“Please,” he said breathlessly, “don’t apologize. Not for that.” He started to lean in, his lips seeking hers again.

“Wait.” She put a hand on his chest. _This is crazy_, said the rational part of her brain. _Where’s the harm? _Said the devil on her shoulder. _You’ll never see him again. _“Truth or dare?” she asked.

His eyes flicked between hers. His thumb rubbed across her cheek. “Dare,” he murmured. Her heart soared.

“Take me home with you,” she said. There it was. Out on the table. Perhaps he would pull back, drop his hands, retreat across the bar again. Perhaps he would look at her as if she were insane. But that wasn’t what happened.

He dropped his hands from her cheeks to reach into his pocket and pull out his wallet, throwing a twenty dollar bill on the bar. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

#

The taxi dropped them only a short drive away, not in front of a residential building as Éowyn expected but in front of a nice chain hotel. Faramir paid the driver—refusing when she tried to chip in—and then turned to her before they went inside.

“Wait,” he said. “Before we go in—I just want to make sure . . .” He hesitated. His eyes were soft, full of questions. He was being honorable. Of course he was. He seemed the type.

She stood on her toes and kissed him again.

Tomorrow morning she could think about how crazy she was and how Faramir could be an axe-murderer and how Éomer would die of an apoplectic fit if he knew about this. For now, she just wanted to keep tasting this man, each kiss like a lightning bolt and each heartbeat like the answering thunder.

His hands came around her waist and he kissed her back, deeply, roughly, like he was barely grasping at his sanity, too. That in itself made her even more desperate to get upstairs. To fracture this careful, controlled man’s composure—now that would be an image to fill her dreams at night.

They kissed in the elevator until a hotel employee stepped on board, and then they broke apart reluctantly, but his hands kept playing with her braid at her back. Her attention honed to that few inches of space where his fingertips brushed against her.

When the elevator stopped on Faramir’s floor and they were alone again, he kissed her in the hallway, pressing her up against the wall and trailing his lips down her neck. His beard scratched just as she’d imagined it would against the most sensitive skin beneath her ear, and the sweet pleasure of it made her toes curl in her shoes. “Come on,” she said. “Bed—”

And she didn’t need to tell him again. He fumbled in his pocket for his key and swiped them inside, looking flushed and a little bit awestruck in a way that was entirely too endearing for her comfort.

_This is just for tonight_, she told herself again as he tugged her through the door.

Then the door clicked shut behind them, and they were alone in the dim room.

“Should I turn on the lights?” he asked breathlessly, already reaching for them.

“No! No.” She stopped his hand, remembering the scars on her arm. Better for him not to see that. The moonlight, she could handle; the harsh reality of the fluorescent hotel lights seemed suddenly too much. 

“All right,” he said. He sounded surprised, but he didn’t press the issue. Still, the heated passion of the hallway started to drain away, punctured by awkwardness, and Éowyn scrambled to recover.

“Come on,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him deeper into the room. The curtains were cracked open, enough so that she could see her way to the bed. She pulled him over to it and sat him down before her, putting her hands on his shoulders.

He looked up at her from the end of the bed, his hair slightly mussed from her attentions. His eyes caught the moonlight streaming in through the crack in the curtains, and they were luminous and serious and beautiful. God, he was beautiful. She felt an ache in her heart that she wasn’t expecting, a sudden desire for something _much more frightening _than a one night stand, and she had to shove it away briskly in a lockbox in the back of her mind. _He’s not for me. _

_But I can still enjoy this. _

Feelings safely dampened, Éowyn gave herself over to the electricity climbing across their skin. She reached up and shucked off her cardigan. His eyes followed the movement, and when her fingers went up to the topmost button of her long blouse, his fingers followed after. He caught on quick. He worked to unbutton the rest as she reached out and did the same for him. By the time he peeled back her shirt, she did the same for his. His breath hitched as they bared their skin.

Those luminous gray eyes trailed over her, drinking her in, and she shivered under their hypnotizing spell. _More. _She pushed him forward, interrupting his view, and crawled atop him on the mattress until her knees straddled his lap. Bending forward, she kissed him, and her plait slithered across her back and smacked the mattress beside his head.

He broke the kiss, twisting to look at it. “May I?” he asked in a low murmur, his hands already moving to unwind her hair tie.

“O-of course,” she said, bewildered. She watched as he made deft work of the hair tie and tossed it off the bed. Then, with a look of intense concentration, he began to untwist her plait, until her hair was one long spill of golden thread across the white duvet.

“It’s long,” she said, feeling shy in a way she hadn’t when he was unbuttoning her shirt. “I need to cut it.”

"It’s beautiful,” he said, running his fingers through it. Then he reached up, fingers tangling in it, and pulled her down to his lips once more. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, the words brushing across her mouth, and then he kissed her deeply, pulling her downwards. Down, down, like she was drowning in him.

They shifted until she was beneath him on the bed, her hair fanned out and tangling up in him, and then he began to kiss his way down her chest. His mouth caught on her right breast, sucking her nipple through the lace of her bra, and her backed arched up off the mattress. “So beautiful,” he said again, half to himself, and drifted across to her other breast. Éowyn’s panties were soaking, and she ached for him to get to her jeans, to tug them off, to get inside her. This slow steady unmaking of her would be her death.

But he took his time kissing his way down her stomach, savoring each brush of his lips as if he were tasting fine wine. When at least he reached the button of her jeans, she lifted her pelvis off the bed, pressing it to his hands. He grinned.

“You want something?” he asked.

“You bastard.” But her words were so breathless they fell away without malice, and he chuckled.

“Don’t worry,” he said, unbuttoning her jeans, peeling down her zipper, stripping the jeans from her hips. “I’ll get there.”

When the jeans were on the floor, she expected him to take the panties off next, but he didn’t. He hooked a finger through the right leg of them and brushed them aside, ever-so-gently, _handling precious goods_, and then he bent his face toward her core.

She stopped him, startled. “You don’t have to.”

He froze, lifted his head. “What?”

“It’s okay. You can just—take them off.” Good thing the room was dark. She was bright red. But she heard the words of her past boyfriends in her head, the ones who would complain about _all that foreplay for nothing _and _so much work when it’s not even the real thing, honestly, can’t we just get to the good stuff? _And she wanted to please Faramir. She wanted him to like this as much as she did.

“What?” he said again, as if he hadn’t heard her.

“Here.” She bent down and did it for him, stripping off her panties with some awkwardness since he was still stretched between her legs. It forced him upright and away from her, but when she was finished, she tossed them on the carpet with a little flourish, as if to say, _ta-da! Now you get the prize. _

His brow wrinkled in the darkness. She could see that. But she couldn’t quite read his face. She lay back down, all the awkwardness returning. Had she ruined it? But then his hand slid up her shin, over her knee, stopping at her thigh. “Are you sure?” he asked, wary.

She lifted her pelvis toward him again, asking him to fill her with her body instead of words. “Very,” she said, because she _was _sure, she was ready, more than ready for him.

His hand left her leg to unbuckle his belt, then his jeans, shucking them to the floor along with a dark pair of boxer-briefs. Then he slid up between her knees, skin-to-skin save for her lace bra, and she held her breath.

But he only planted a kiss on her forehead before he rolled away.

“Sorry,” he said at her confused look. “Condom.”

“Oh. Right.” _Duh. _Good thing one of them had enough of a mind left to do the right thing. He slid off the bed and went to his jeans, picking them up and digging in the pocket until he retrieved his wallet. Éowyn couldn’t help but appreciate the slope of his back, the vee of his muscles pointing down to his tight, rounded arse. She flushed, looking away. If not for him, she’d be halfway to pregnant by now.

He crawled up her again, this time equipped, and she felt the press of his latexed hardness against the top of her thigh as his elbows settled beside her head. Her body clenched, and she lifted up to meet him.

“Ready?” he asked, brushing a bit of hair from her face. His touch was so tender, his eyes so soft, that her reply stuck in her throat.

_Could anyone be ready for this? _she thought, but after a second attempt she said, “Yes.”

She felt the brush of his fingers against the top of her thigh, and then he pressed inside her, just a bit at first.

She let out a quick breath, arching up to meet him, and he grunted and thrust all the way in. “God,” he said, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. His hair tickled her cheek. “God, you’re amazing.”

“You’re not bad yourself,” she said, hoarsely, as he slid out and thrust in again. She hadn’t had sex in _so long_, and she felt herself filled completely, almost to the point of aching. She began to move in a rhythm and he matched it, dropping one hand down to her bum and lifting her slightly from the bed.

Her hands drifted over the muscles of his back. Sweat broke out on their skin. She heard his breathing in her ear and savored the shuddering breaths, the low sounds of pleasure as their pace picked up. Then he shifted slightly, lifting her even higher, and she forgot to notice detail. She only noticed the sweet, icy burn of pleasure that he was building within her. No one had ever hit that spot for her before.

“That feels—that’s—oh God, please don’t stop.” She bit her lip after she spoke, hardly aware of what she was saying, but it seemed to work for him, because he moaned in her ear and thrust harder. His movements became more jerky, less controlled, and he bent and kissed her earlobe, whispering an endearment she couldn’t quite catch. They were in a haze of broken control now, a mutually assured destruction that each one fought harder to reach.

“Talk to me, Éowyn,” he murmured, thrusting deep, and at the sound of his voice saying her name, she clenched hard.

“I’m close,” she said. “I’m so close—so close—please don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he promised, and he lifted her higher, her pelvis rubbing his. The movement rubbed across her clit, piercing her with pleasure. She broke, evaporating in a flashburn of heat and intensity, and she grasped for his back, his shoulders, anything to hold on to as she drifted apart.

He followed her a moment after, burying his face in her shoulder as he lost control. They both came down shaking—Éowyn could feel him trembling as he lowered her to the bed—and she pulled him to her, feeling his heartbeat echo through her bones. It was beating at the same rhythm as her own.

She tried unsuccessfully to gather herself as if that hadn’t just been the best sex of her twenty-eight years of life.

Faramir’s breath stirred the hair at her temple. After a while, he pulled back, sliding out of her. “Wow,” he said.

“I know.” She flushed, still heated from the exertion. She couldn’t help a flash of pride that he seemed equally shaken.

He rolled away to take off the condom and throw it in the bin beside the bed. When he came back, he curled around her, sliding his arm beneath her head so that her cheek rested on his chest. Éowyn heard a voice in her head, a warning—_watch out_—but she ignored it. She could take five minutes to hold him and be held by him. Then she would go.

He turned his head and kissed her lightly on the top of hers. The movement was so tender that Éowyn’s heart stuttered in her chest. “Truth or dare,” he murmured.

She laughed. Turning her head to catch his eyes, she said, “I think you’re going to need five minutes before I pick dare.”

“Five?” He grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m afraid it’s more like fifteen.”

She smiled. “All right. Truth.”

“That was fucking incredible.”

“That’s not how it works,” she said, but she couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re supposed to ask me a question, and I have to tell you the truth.”

“Fine. Was that . . . good . . . for you?”

“It was pretty damned amazing,” she whispered, and if he thought she was selling him short, he didn’t say it. He didn’t say, _you know it was better than amazing. _He didn’t say, _Stop being a coward and admit how hard it’s going to be for you to leave. _Perhaps he didn’t say those things because he didn’t realize what was going on inside her head. Or perhaps he just didn’t care.

He was silent for a moment, unreadable, until he lightly said, “Glad you agree.”

_Five minutes_, Éowyn thought as her eyes fell shut. His hand curled even more tightly around her, holding her to him. _Five minutes, that’s all. _

She woke when the sun slanted through the crack in the curtains and smacked her full in the face. It took her several moments to get her bearings because a strong, curving arm pinned her to the unfamiliar bed. Her nostrils were full of the smell of cedar and herbs and _manhood. _

The night before came rushing back.

_Oh, God. _Éowyn squeezed her eyes shut, wishing to return to the peaceful slumber she’d been enjoying a minute prior. How could she have been so stupid? How could she let this happen?

_It was supposed to be five minutes. _

The clock on the bedside table, which she could see from among her mound of pillows, told her it was after nine am. Merry would be frantic and, oh God, what if he called Éomer? Panic seized her, and before she could think, Éowyn slipped out of Faramir’s hold and jumped out of bed, searching frantically for her underwear.

From the bed, Faramir jerked awake, then rose up on his elbow. He rubbed a hand down his face as she slid on her panties, then her jeans. “Good morning,” he said sleepily, looking as if he were enjoying the show.

Her heart leapt and stuttered. He looked thoroughly and contentedly debauched, and the sight made her want to strip off her pants again and pin him to the bed. But she couldn’t. She shouldn’t be here. She _really _shouldn’t be here.

He frowned as she turned and located her blouse, his eyes slipping down to her left arm. She pulled her sleeve on hastily, covering up the scars so he wouldn’t see. “Éowyn?” he asked, his eyes still on the injured arm, though she was now buttoning up her shirt.

“Good morning,” she said belatedly. She looked down and realized she’d missed a button. Nevermind. No one would notice. She tucked the blouse in the front of her jeans and looked around for her cardigan.

“The hotel breakfast goes until ten,” Faramir said cautiously, still watching her from the bed. “I thought—”

“I have to go,” she said.

“What, now?” He pushed aside the blankets, finding his boxer-briefs and tugging them on. He came around to face her, crossing his arms over his not insubstantial chest. _Jesus Christ. _He was really making this difficult for her.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, looking around for her hair tie without success. Fuck it. She could leave her hair down. It looked like a bird had nested in it overnight, but so what. She just needed to get home. “Look, I really . . . appreciate . . . everything. And I wish you all the best.” The last sentence came out in a rush of expelled breath. Her cheeks burned. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

A stunned silence. Then: “That’s it? Listen—Éowyn, please don’t do this. Let’s have breakfast. Let’s talk.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again, slipping into her shoes, running her fingers through her hair. They got stuck on a knot and she jerked, too hard. Tears stung her eyes. “I can’t.”

“Wait. Please—” He reached for her, but she ducked past him, already halfway down the hall to the door. With her fingers grasped the handle, he made a choked noise, and she froze. 

“Goodbye, Faramir. And—thank you.”

And then she was out in the hall, and he wasn’t coming after her.

#

“—and when you get to Queenstown, you sure as _fuck _better get tested, because I don’t trust any man as far as I can throw him—” 

Éowyn almost choked on her tea. “We are not having this conversation,” she muttered into her phone, looking around the airport to make sure no one heard.

“—especially not a _complete and total stranger! _Éowyn, seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Looks like the boarding call just sounded. Got to go.”

“You are _not _hanging up on me. Don’t make me fly down there. Because I will.”

That, at least, was an empty threat. Éomer was far too busy with the demands of Edoras to leave the farm behind. The last time he took a break was—well, after the accident, and that didn’t count.

“I told you,” she said with as much patience as she could muster. “We were safe. And I only told you what happened so you’d calm down.” She rolled her eyes. “Look how well that’s working.”

Éomer sighed on the other end of the line. “I don’t hear from you in weeks. You barely remember to tell me that you’re moving. And then I get a call from Merry out of the blue wondering where you are—Jesus, Éowyn, what am I supposed to think?”

She wanted to melt into her chair. He was right. She had been avoiding him, and she supposed a missing persons announcement wasn’t the best way to catch up on her life. “I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch more. But that doesn’t give you any rights over my personal life. I’m a grown woman.”

“So I’ve heard,” he growled.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nevermind,” he said quickly. “Just—promise me you’ll talk to me once you get to Queenstown.”

“I promise,” she answered after a moment’s hesitation. After all, he hadn’t specified how often.

He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, “We’re getting ready to celebrate Gamling’s birthday. His fiftieth. The whole town’s turning out.”

“That’s great,” she said. She could still picture the older man’s smiling face, his constant kindness to her while she was growing up on her uncle’s farm. “Tell him hi from me.”

“Éowyn, you should be here.”

She sighed. She should’ve known this is where the conversation would lead. “Éomer—”

“The party’s two weeks from Saturday. Think about it. I’ll pay for your flight.”

The boarding call really did sound for her flight, then. “Look, I have to go.”

“Éowyn—”

“Bye.” She hung up before he could say anything else. Draining the rest of her tea, she went to take her place in line to board her plane to the South Island. To her new life.

And if a part of her would be left behind on the North Island, well, she was getting used to being in pieces.

#

The next day, Éowyn checked herself in the mirror one last time before heading out to her first day at Steward Veterinary Services. She was a bit paler than she would’ve liked, despite a splash of blush on her cheeks. She hadn’t slept well ever since her night with Faramir. But her eyes were bright, favored by the soft purple dress she wore, and her hair was smooth in its careful plait. She had on comfortable yet professional shoes, since she would be on her feet all day, training. She was ready.

She thought about what she’d learned regarding this veterinary practice. They were in need of another large animal vet, which boded well for their business. They’d been impressed by her education and experience up on the North Island and seemed hospitable enough when she did her phone interview. And it was through one of Merry’s relatives, a guy named Pippin, that she’d heard of the job in the first place. At least she would have one automatic friend.

She was back in chipper mood, crossed with a few stripes of excitement, by the time she reached the office. It was a quaint place in a squat brick building not far from her new flat. A few cars were already parked in the parking lot, including a big orange ute that had seen better days. Éowyn fought a wash of shyness as she walked toward the door.

Another employee beat her there, a short, curly-haired man with a ready smile. As she approached, he held the door open for her, grinning. “You must be our new hire,” he said.

“Éowyn.”

“Éowyn. Right. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I might’ve called you about a million different names during the hiring process.” He frowned. “I hope I filled out the paperwork right.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m used to just about everything.”

He chuckled. “Well, now that you’re here, we’ll make an effort to get it right.” He followed her inside and waved her through the reception area toward a door that led to the back of the building. “I believe you’re brave enough to share a flat with my cousin Merry?”

Éowyn stumbled to a halt. “_You’re _Pippin?” She grinned. “I should’ve known.” The family resemblance was clear in their short statures and their brown, curling hair. There was even a twinkle of mischief in Pippin’s eyes that looked remarkably similar to Merry’s.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Pippin, breezing past her through another door. “This way.”

Pippin led her on a brief tour of the office as other employees filtered in. Éowyn tried not to get intimidated by all the new rules and names to remember. She was mostly succeeding when Pippin said, “Oh! And I’d better introduce you to the boss.”

Éowyn swallowed. _The boss. _He hadn’t been able to make any of her phone or virtual interviews because he’d been on family travel. Something important. But she knew his name was Steward—that was the name of the practice, after all.

“Through here,” Pippin said. “He’s kind of a workaholic. You have to track him down sometimes. But I think I saw his ute—” Pippin stopped in front of the door at the endmost part of the hallway and knocked. “Boss?”

“Come in,” said a low, melodic tenor, and Éowyn’s heart leapt to her throat.

She knew that voice.

She’d heard that voice in her dreams for the last few nights.

No. No way. Impossible. He would’ve mentioned. He would’ve said—

Pippin cracked the door open. Inside, Faramir was rising from his chair, a polite smile on his lips. He froze, the smile dropping away, to be replaced by a look of utter shock in those gentle gray eyes.

Éowyn felt her blood rush to her face. She cleared her throat. “Um. Hello,” she said.


	2. Wellington Girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments & kudos on the last chapter! I really hope you enjoy this one. :)
> 
> _Helping the kids out of their coats_  
But wait the babies haven't been born  
\- Feist, "Mushaboom"

Faramir blinked, certain that the woman before him was about to dissolve and rearrange herself into the stranger he’d been expecting. But she didn’t disappear. On the contrary, the flush on her cheeks spread down her neck and along the collar of her cashmere dress, proving that she was very much flesh and blood. _Éowyn. _

He’d postponed his flight home from Wellington to go back to the Green Dragon and try to meet her again. Hell, he’d even questioned the bartender. He’d had very little shame in trying to track her down. But, eventually, with a new hire starting and his father’s lawyers ringing him every hour, he’d come home.

And here she was, walking into his office.

Faramir shut his mouth, clearing his throat. “Hi,” he said. Not exactly the eloquent speech he’d planned for this moment. He moved around his desk and stood before her, burying his hands in his pockets.

Pippin’s brow furrowed as he glanced between them. “Have you two met before?” he asked.

“Actually—” Faramir began, but Éowyn spoke over him.

“No,” she said. She stuck out her palm in Faramir’s direction. “I’m Éowyn de Rouen. Nice to meet you.”

Startled, he hesitated a moment too long before taking her hand. As their palms touched, memories of those fingers digging into his back sparked in his head. The feel of her soft skin; the smell of her faintly lavender perfume—they both came rushing back, along with a flood of other images from their night together.

"Why are you being so weird?” asked Pippin, staring at Faramir with a question in his eyes.

“I’m not being weird,” Faramir said, pasting what he hoped was a friendly, _normal _smile on his face. “Welcome to the practice, Éowyn.” _Éowyn. _Saying her name was a secret pleasure. That, too, sparked memories, and by the rate at which her cheeks were darkening, it did the same for her. “I was expecting Emily.”

Pippin looked abashed. “Yeah. Sorry. I filled out the paperwork wrong.”

“It’s all right.” Faramir couldn’t look away from her. Those soft gray eyes, almost violet against the dark purple of her dress—they were avoiding his gaze, yes, but they were as lovely as ever. There was a hidden strength about her, a vulnerability shielded by self-preservation, and he fought against a powerful urge to shove Pippin out the door and lock it behind him. 

“So, um, do you want me to finish the office tour?”

“Oh.” Faramir blinked. “Yes, please do. And don’t forget to go over the client files that will be transferring from my patient list.”

“I assumed you would do that,” said Pippin, giving him a _did-you-not-drink-your-coffee-this-morning _look.

“Can’t,” Faramir lied. “I have to run out to—to Mirkwood. Something came up with the pregnant mare.” Somehow he sensed that if Éowyn didn’t want to acknowledge meeting him, she wouldn’t want to spend the day at his side.

Pippin’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure? I just spoke with Legolas this morning. He said everything was fine.”

“Gimli told me.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “I think I’d better go out and check.”

“All right,” said Pippin, watching Faramir with narrowed eyes. Then he turned to Éowyn, and Faramir let out his breath. “Shall we?”

She nodded.

“Nice to meet you,” Faramir couldn’t resist saying. He had to get her to look at him. Just once.

Her eyes flashed up to his, stopping his breath in his throat. “You, too,” she mumbled, hurrying after Pippin out the door.

So much for winning her over.

“Sorry about that.” Pippin’s voice traveled through the thin wood of Faramir’s door as it shut behind them. “He’s really nice when you get to know him . . .”

“I’m sure,” came Éowyn’s distant reply.

Faramir turned and rested his forehead against his office wall.

_What the fuck was he going to do?_

#

The answer to that question ended up being “drive around in circles until the staff should be gone for the day.” By the time he returned to the office, the car park was empty, and one lone light was still on inside. Likely Pippin had forgotten to it flip off on his way out the door. Faramir let out his breath as he unlocked the back door and moved toward his office. He’d have lots of paperwork to catch up on after his wasted day.

All of sudden, he was a hit by a sharp, aching sense of grief. It was moments like this that he wished he could ring his brother. _Hi, Boromir. How do I win over the mysterious stranger I slept with in Wellington, and oh, yeah, by the way, she’s my employee now? _Faramir could practically hear his brother laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation. And yet he would have had a dose of good advice to share as well. He always had.

Lost in thought, Faramir was unprepared when another person came around the corner. As a result, he nearly smacked right into her. _Éowyn. _He lifted his hands instinctively and caught her by the elbows, preventing her from walking into his chest. Her eyes flew wide.

“Hi,” he said. Christ, why was he unable to be remotely interesting around this woman?

“Hello,” she said, extricating herself and stepping back. His hands fell heavily to his sides. “I didn’t think anyone else was here,” she said, blushing a little.

“Just got back,” he said. She pulled some lint off one long cashmere sleeve. He hesitated. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here. We should talk.”

She glanced up sharply, looking for all the world like a cornered animal. “Um, okay. What about?”

“I think you know what.” He wanted to step closer, to brush an escaped tendril of hair behind her ear. But the frightened look in her eyes told him not to push his luck. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, “Would you like to sit down in my office for a second?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” She lifted her chin. “If you think there’s going to be a problem with me working here, you might as well tell me now and—”

“What?” he asked, surprised.

She blushed further, but held his gaze with a determined look. “I think it’s better to get things over with. You know. If you’re going to sack me.”

_"Sack _you_—_?” He choked on the words. “Jesus, Éowyn. I’m not going to sack you. What kind of bloke do you think I am?” A memory returned to him from their conversation at the bar. _Sometimes he’ll scare away the blokes for me if I ask him to_. What kind of men had she _known? _

She chewed her lip. “I just thought . . . because of what happened . . . you might not want to be around me.”

_On the contrary, I want to be around you all the time. _He swallowed back the words. He could practically hear Boromir’s voice: _Don’t scare her. Act normal. _“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “I would never treat you that way.”

A shadowed look crossed her face—relief, or perhaps confusion. “Then . . .” She swallowed. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I thought we should clear the air. About what happened.” _I thought we should talk about how you left me without so much as your last name. I thought we should talk about how I went looking for you. _The words wouldn’t come.

"You don’t have to worry,” she said in a rush. “No one will ever know it happened.”

He tried to suppress the flash of hurt caused by her words. “You . . . don’t think it’ll be a problem.” His voice came out curiously calm and flat.

“Of course not,” she said. “You’re my boss, and besides, you’re far too professional to think of it.”

He could’ve laughed, in other circumstances. _If only she knew . . ._

“We’re _both_ professionals,” she continued. “This job is important to me. I won’t do a thing to make you uncomfortable. It’ll be as if we never met.”

Each word was a lash of the whip against his heart. “As if we never met.”

“I promise.” Her eyes were wide, appealing. It was clear this was what she wanted.

So be it. “Very well,” he said, already stepping to the side of the hallway to let her pass. His eyes found the carpet at her feet. “Goodnight, Éowyn.”

She seemed to hesitate, unmoving. Then she brushed past him. “Goodnight.”

He went into his office and shut the door, leaning his head back against it. Was it because he was her boss now?

Or was it because she wasn’t interested?

After a long time, he went over to his desk and sat down, resting his forehead in his hands. Not for the first time in his life, he felt as if the universe were playing some kind of trick on him.

But, after a while, he gathered himself together. He sat up straight, summoning the last of his energy to pull his laptop closer and log in. A few clicks brought up his internet browser, and he began to type:

_Large animal vet jobs Queenstown. _

He wasn’t ready to give up yet.

#

The week passed in a blur, mostly because Faramir spent so much energy and effort avoiding Éowyn that he hardly noticed the work before his eyes. He drove out to neighboring farms several times, and really, she should have been accompanying him, as the next large animal vet in training. But he left her at the office to shadow Pippin instead.

Pippin was starting to notice. On Friday morning, he finally confronted Faramir in his office before Éowyn could arrive. “What’s your problem?” Pippin asked, righteous indignation plain on his face.

Faramir sighed, not glancing up from the patient file before him. “I don’t have a problem.”

“You do. You’re being a right arse. Not something I’d ever expected from you, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.”

“What are you talking about, Pippin?”

“I’m talking about the fact that you keep ignoring our newest hire as if she has the plague. She doesn’t have the plague. She’s quite nice, actually. I like her.”

Faramir glanced up. “You do?”

“Yes. And I think she could use a friend. She seems a bit . . . lonely.”

“She does?” Faramir asked, a hint of wistfulness creeping into his voice despite himself. _Damn. _He would have to be more careful. Pippin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Wait a second. Do you . . . fancy her?”

Faramir glanced back at the file. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh my God. You do. You fancy her.” Pippin sounded absolutely gleeful. “I don’t believe it. I thought you’d be single forever. I can’t wait to tell Mer—”

“You’re not telling anyone,” said Faramir sharply. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Oh, holy shit, you _really _fancy her,” came Pippin’s reply. He was practically hopping on his feet. He moved forward, shutting the office door behind him, and took a seat across from Faramir. “Do you think she fancies you?”

“No,” said Faramir briefly, pretending to flip over some papers in the file without really seeing them. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m very busy—”

“Reading a report on some lambings that took place six months ago?”

Faramir took a deep breath, praying for patience. “Pippin—”

“Wait a second,” Pippin asked slowly. “What about Wellington girl?”

Faramir’s jaw worked as he struggled for calm. “I knew I shouldn’t tell you things,” he muttered.

Understanding dawned on Pippin’s face, and truly, he was like a child at Christmas. “Wait a second. Oh my God. Don’t tell me she _is _Wellington girl?”

“Please stop calling her that.”

“Oh my God! She is! She’s the girl!” Pippin was all but rubbing his hands together. “I knew something was up the first time you met her.”

Faramir, who was now regretting several of his life choices, closed the file on his desk with a smack. “Pippin. Listen to me. You are not to let any hint of this show on your face or in your voice when you talk to Éowyn. She and I are _not _seeing one another, and likely never will be, all right? So—just—lay off the poor woman.” _And me, _Faramir wanted to add, but he summoned the last of his dignity and fell silent.

Pippin blinked. “What do you mean, you’re not seeing each other?”

Faramir rolled his eyes. “That’s what sticks out?”

“Why not? You said she was your dream woman. I don’t understand.”

More life choices to regret—not thinking it, but telling Pippin in the first place. Faramir was beginning to see an advantage in having no friends. “She wants to keep things professional,” he said. “And she’s right. I’m her boss. She’s my employee.”

“We don’t even have a human resources department. _I’m _the human resources department,” said Pippin.

“Doesn’t matter. This is about what Éowyn wants. And she made it very clear that she doesn’t want—what happened—to happen again.”

“What _did _happen, exactly?” Pippin asked. “All you said was that you met the girl of your dreams—”

“Pippin,” said Faramir flatly. “Get out.”

“But I just want to know—”

“Out.”

Pippin stood, holding up his palms in surrender, but Faramir was sure he saw a hint of a smile on the other man’s face as he walked out the door.

#

That evening provided Faramir with a perfect opportunity to demonstrate how little was between him and Éowyn. The practice had arranged a casual get-together at the local pub to celebrate her joining the team. Everyone was invited, including some friends who didn’t work at the clinic, and Faramir knew it would be bad taste for him to skip out. As a result, he found himself walking into his favorite local pub with an odd mix of anticipation and hesitation mingling in his gut.

Éowyn had arrived before him, and the sight of her alone at the bar made him stop in his tracks. She leaned on her elbows on the bartop, her shoulders a bit slumped out of weariness, or perhaps simple boredom—it was hard to tell. Her face was as lovely as ever, but he thought he detected a bit of sadness in the shadows beneath her eyes. Was she sleeping well? Was she enjoying Queenstown? Did she like this beautiful, wild place, or was she missing home? A desperate desire to ask her these questions, to steal her away to the corner of the bar and talk to her all night, washed over him. Then she glanced his way, and he shook himself free of his strange notions.

“Hello,” he said, smiling politely. She nodded, standing up straight as if found guilty of something. It hurt him to see her be so formal with him, but he hoped he hid it well. “Can I get you your first round?” he asked.

“Oh. That’s nice. You don’t have to—”

“Please,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes. “We’re celebrating you tonight. You deserve it.”

“All right,” she said. “But . . . I’m actually not drinking tonight. First night out with the new office mates, and all. I want to make a good impression. I’ll have a ginger beer.”

He flagged the bartender down. “Two ginger beers, please. In glasses.”

She seemed surprised. “You’re not drinking either?”

“I’m on call,” he explained. “No alcohol. Just in case.”

“Right.” She chewed her lip. “How long until we start alternating? Pippin mentioned something about that.”

“I figured you should get some training under your belt first.”

“So, you mean, after you take me out to some patients?”

He glanced over at her. Was that a bit of dryness in her voice? “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”

She frowned. Then she surprised him by stepping closer. “You can’t avoid me forever,” she said. “If it’s my skill you’re worried about—”

“I’m not worried about your skill,” he said.

She blinked. "Oh."

“I just thought you’d prefer not to spend all that time alone with me."

She flushed. “Well. I want to. I-I mean, I want to start working with patients . . .” Her voice trailed off.

His heart soared, but he knew he was being stupid. _She’s only talking about doing her job, you idiot, _he told himself. Fortunately, a moment later, their drinks arrived.

“Best pretend that’s cider, if Pippin asks,” Faramir said, handing over her ginger beer. “Otherwise he’ll try even harder to get you drunk.”

She smiled, and his heart flipped over. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

The others started to arrive then, dragging her over to a table in the back, and Faramir let them take their seats before finding one on the edge for himself. He was quiet, sipping his drink and enjoying the friendly office banter, when a soft voice said at his ear, “What’s this I hear about our mare?”

He jumped and turned to find Legolas seated at his elbow. The fair-haired, youthful man grinned. “Apparently you paid her a visit on Monday. Strange, because Gimli and I weren’t home . . .”

Faramir felt his ears turning hot and wondered if he could get away with dodging the question. “I think Pippin must have been mistaken . . .”

“Ah. Of course. And when he told me you were in love with your newest employee . . . was he mistaken about that, too?”

Faramir briefly indulged in a fantasy of killing Pippin. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Yes. He was.”

Legolas gave him a smug, infuriating smile. Then his gaze drifted past Faramir to where Éowyn sat in the middle of the table. “Is that she? She’s lovely.”

Faramir could not suppress a flash of worry. Pippin was one thing, but Legolas too? There was no way he could compete with the other man’s perfect skin and impeccable fashion. “I thought you were happily married.”

Legolas grinned. “Careful, Faramir. Your interest is showing.” He stood up and moved away down the table before Faramir could speak again.

Bastard.

As the evening wore on and Éowyn drained her glasses, Faramir made sure the bartender brought her more ginger beer before anyone else could jump in and replenish it with something stronger. By the third time this happened, she paused in surprise with the drink halfway to her lips before looking down the table and finding him watching her. A blush suffused her pale features, and then she smiled, nodding once in thanks. Warmth seeped through his chest. God, he was hopeless. He barely knew her. But seeing that look in her eyes . . .

He wanted to.

He stood up and went to the bar, getting a glass of cold water this time. He downed it quickly and went to stand outside in the crisp autumn air. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the air smelled wet and heavy with a hint of oncoming rain. How perfectly suitable to his mood. Faramir ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps he had stayed long enough to fulfill his duty. Perhaps he should go home.

Right at that moment, the phone in his pocket began to ring.

He dug for it and answered immediately. “Faramir Steward.”

“Faramir. It’s the mare. She’s in the second stage already, dammit, and I only noticed now. You’ll have to come down—I think the foal’s coming breech.”

“Shit. All right, Gimli, hold tight. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Get her up and walking if you can.”

“Will do,” came the low baritone response before Gimli hung up. Faramir hurried back inside to the group, who fell silent as he approached.

“I have to go,” he said. His eyes found Legolas. “The mare’s gone into labor. Breech birth.”

Legolas’s eyebrows flicked up, and then he was on his feet, halfway to the pub door. “I’ll drive you,” he said.

But Faramir shook his head. “I’ve got my things in the ute. You go ahead. I’m right behind you.” He sought Pippin out from the crowd around the table as Legolas nodded and disappeared out the pub door. “If anyone else calls, can you handle it?”

Pippin nodded.

“I can come,” Éowyn said, surprising everyone. Heads turned toward her.

Faramir opened his mouth. “I don’t think—”

“You’ll need an extra pair of hands. I have to get involved sometime. Let me come.”

He blinked. She was right, of course. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

Pippin’s eyes widened, but everyone else missed the look in their wave of boos and sad protestations. But they all knew the drill. Such was the life of their practice—the emergencies didn’t stop because the clock did.

Faramir said nothing as he led Éowyn out to his old orange ute. He’d never noticed until that moment just how desperately he was in need of a new one. But she climbed up and buckled herself in without protest. “Where to?” she asked.

“Mirkwood farm. Gimli and Legolas own the land out there. Mix of sheep, horses, some cattle—”

Éowyn nodded. “I read up on the file. This is the youngest mare? Billie?”

Faramir was impressed. “That’s right. This is her first foal.” The engine roared to life, along with his music, which he hurriedly switched off.

Éowyn shot him a look of bemusement as he pulled out of the car park. “You don’t have to turn it off.”

He shrugged, hoping she didn’t notice his cheeks flushing in the dark. Boromir had always made fun of his classical music.

Éowyn leaned forward without speaking and punched the power button again, bringing the music back to life. It was one of his favorite pieces—The Swan, from the Carnival of Animals by Saint-Saens. He glanced sideways at Éowyn as the soft, melancholic notes of the cello rose above the rest.

“It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.

He felt an ache in his chest.

Then lightning split the sky ahead of them and sheets of rain began pouring down. Faramir turned his concentration to the road, pushing to just over the speed limit in order to get to Mirkwood as quickly as he could. The gentle sound of the music mingled with the onslaught of rain, and they sat in a comfortable silence for the rest of the drive.

“Classical music,” said Éowyn musingly when they finally reached the farm and Faramir turned off the engine. She smiled at him. “That sounds about right.”

Though the words might have been mocking coming from someone else, from her, spoken with that tender look in her eye, they sounded almost appreciative. It made his heart warm, but then they were leaping out into the rain, and the moment fell behind them.

Time to get to work.

Éowyn wordlessly took whatever Faramir handed her from the back of his ute. Moving quickly, they carried their birthing kits toward the large barn, where even despite the rain an electric lantern was visible through the barn doors. Legolas stepped out just as they reached the barn, waving them in.

“We wrapped her tail,” he explained, taking them back to the mare’s birthing stall. The electric lantern lit most of the space, but it was still dark, as it usually was wherever mares chose to give birth. “But Gimli’s right. She’s breech.”

Faramir glanced at Éowyn to read her reaction to this news. They would have to reach inside the mare and repel the foal back into the mare’s uterus enough to turn it around. Éowyn looked a bit paler than before, perhaps, but she was otherwise undaunted. He’d read her CV. He knew how well prepared she was for this moment.

By the time they reached the stall, Gimli was a nervous wreck, sputtering about how long this had been going on and how worried he was and why couldn’t Faramir drive faster, for God’s sake? Legolas shushed him and pulled him out of the way with quiet words. Éowyn looked faintly amused at this exchange. But after that, she was all business.

She had the headlamp from her birthing kit on before Faramir had even blinked. A second later, she had her sleeves rolled up as she pulled on her latex gloves. For a brief moment, in the dark, Faramir caught a glimpse of the scars on her left arm. He’d seen them before, when she was dressing in his hotel room. But she glanced sharply at him, and he busied himself with his own preparations. This was not the time to get distracted.

Once he’d made that decision, the two of them fell into a working rhythm so smooth that they were almost extensions of each other. She moved before he could direct her and handed him tools before he could ask. In no time at all, they’d repelled the foal without issue and were able to turn it around. Gimli broke in from time to time with questions, which Éowyn patiently answered while Faramir concentrated on the mare. By the time the foal was safely delivered, Gimli and Legolas were both joking with Éowyn freely, relieved by her calm manner and careful reassurances. She was a miracle worker.

“Éowyn,” said Gimli, when it was declared that the foal was a filly.

“Yes?” Éowyn replied, straightening from where she had finished dipping the umbilical stump.

“No, I mean, we’ll call her Éowyn,” he growled. “After you.”

“Really?” Éowyn grinned.

“Six years I’ve been your vet,” said Faramir, though he was smiling as he spoke. “This is how you reward me?”

“The next time the dog whelps, we’ll make sure one of the puppies is called Faramir,” said Legolas from beside Gimli.

“I’m honored,” said Faramir drily as he began to pack up his kit.

Éowyn laughed beside him. The sound was quiet, low, but it filled him with such a flash of happiness that for a moment he felt unsteady on his feet. Quite suddenly he found himself imagining more moments like this with her—moments of sharing their work together; moments of sharing the miracle of life.

Just then, the filly stood on wobbly legs for the first time, stumbling toward her mother. The mare dipped her head and began to lick at the filly’s face. Faramir glanced at Éowyn and saw raw emotion on her features, a mix of joy and sadness, and he wondered what she was thinking of.

Gimli and Legolas thanked them both profusely, begging them to come inside and have a cup of tea before they left, but Faramir saw the tiredness in Éowyn’s limbs and told them he had to be off. By the time they’d loaded all his things back in the ute, the rain had soaked them through, but Éowyn didn’t complain. She climbed into the ute and shook her braid out through the open door—much good it did her.

Once they were seated in the shelter of the vehicle, Faramir let the keys dangle in the ignition, shifting to face her. “I owe you an apology,” he said.

She blinked, startled. “What do you mean?”

“You were amazing in there. And I knew you would be, but you were even better than your CV made you sound. You should’ve been going on rounds with me this week. Please forgive me.” 

She frowned. “But you told me you were avoiding me because you thought that’s what I wanted.”

He shrugged. “I was. But that’s no excuse. I didn’t mean to hold you back.” He hesitated, then thought, _fuck it, _and held out a hand. “Forgiven?”

She stared at his hand. All right. Too soon. He started to lower it again, reaching to turn on the ute and get her home before he could cock this up even further. But she stopped him abruptly, reaching out to grab his hand.

Then she kissed him.

Her lips muffled his grunt of surprise. She slid across the long front seat of the ute on her knees until she was right up against him, clutching his shoulders around his seatbelt. She tasted of ginger and that slight hint of lavender that seemed to linger against her skin. Recovering from his initial shock, Faramir opened his lips and ran his hands up her arms, kissing her deeply back.

Her tongue slid against his. His fingers dug into the wet hair at her temples. She pressed closer, reaching down to unclip his seatbelt.

He pulled back so it could return to its spot beside the door.

Legolas and Gimli must be wondering why they hadn’t driven away. Faramir thought this, and just as quickly dismissed the thought. _I don’t care. _Éowyn was breathing heavily, watching him from a few inches away as if unsure of what he would do next. He wasn’t about to waste this moment.

He leaned forward and kissed her again.

He wanted to drown in her. Just the feel of her lips made him crazy. As she shifted until she straddled his legs, a sound he hadn’t known he could make escaped his throat. She snaked her arms around his shoulders. He slipped his hands behind her back, protecting her spine from the steering wheel.

She rocked a little against his erection and stars exploded behind his eyes. Jesus. He was like a teenaged boy around her—barely able to keep it together. His hands were starting to shake. As she trailed her lips sideways and kissed his ear lobe, then hummed a path down his neck, he shivered. Her lips were hot against his rain-touched skin.

“You smell delicious,” she said, and he wondered if she’d pulled the words straight from his head.

“I do?”

“Like cedar.”

“It’s my soap,” he said dumbly, before sucking in a sharp breath as she nibbled beneath his ear. His jeans felt far too tight.

“It’s amazing.” She pressed her nose to his skin and breathed, and the rush of air moving across him made his fingers tense into her.

“Thanks.”

She pulled back. Her gaze was suddenly serious as she raised her fingers to his lips. They were cold, as cold as his skin must be. “I still don’t know anything about you,” she said out of nowhere.

He smiled beneath her fingertips. “What do you want to know?”

She chewed her lip, studying him with an intensity that made him a bit nervous. But he returned her gaze with equal seriousness. “Do you have a girlfriend?” she asked.

“Jesus Christ, Éowyn, what kind of guys have you dated before?”

She dropped her hand from his face, shrugging. “I just want to make sure.”

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m available. I’m very available.”

She smiled a little mischievously, looking down at their closely-packed bodies. “I can see that.”

He smiled back, shifting his hands down a little to the top of her bum so he could drag her forward. “Anything else?”

A flash of pleasure crossed her face as his fingers dug into her. She resettled herself, deliberately rocking a bit against his hardness as she did so, and he sucked in another breath. “Are you always that good at deliveries?”

She meant it as a joke, he knew, but something in the words hinted at the feeling he’d had earlier, when he’d seen her watching the foal in the barn. Perhaps she sensed that her words had cut too close to something deep, because her playful expression faltered. _I could be, _he wanted to say. _For you. _

Holy shit. Boromir would say he belonged in an asylum, and he would be right. Nothing would scare Éowyn away faster than hearing Faramir say, _I’ve thought about having babies with you. _

He cleared his throat. “I try to do all my jobs well.” Again, he’d aimed for something flirtatiously funny and fallen instead on earnestness. He sounded a bit desperate, even to his own ears. _Trust me. Date me. I’ll take care of you. I promise. _

Éowyn’s face changed, shifting from humor to something softer as she studied him. How he longed to hear what she was thinking. But instead of giving an answer, she leaned forward and kissed him very gently on the cheek. His eyes fell shut. It was tender and caring. It made his lungs burn in his chest.

Then she shifted, untangling herself from him, and went back to sit on the passenger side. He felt a stab of pain at the loss of her. She cleared her throat, looking out the window, where the rain streamed down the glass. Quiet fell, and the moment receded like waves on the shore. “I know you do,” she said to the darkness. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The adventures of Éowyn and Faramir continue in chapter three. Please let me know your thoughts :)
> 
> A note on Éowyn's last name: I was trying to get somewhere near "of Rohan," while also sounding modern and "of our world." So that's how and why I chose "de Rouen." There were many other close contenders, but I finally settled on this one.


	3. All Things Will Grow with Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments & kudos! Each one makes me smile and encourages me to write faster. :) I hope you enjoy this bit. 
> 
> _Let me in the wall you've built around_  
_And we can light a match and burn it down_  
\- The Civil Wars, "Dust to Dust"

Faramir was the perfect gentleman when he dropped Éowyn off at her flat after the mare’s birthing. He told her to dry off, warm up, and have a nice weekend. His voice was calm, removed, not the least bit hoarse and breathless as it had been after she kissed him.

How disappointing.

Now, as the mid-morning Saturday sun slanted through her windows, Éowyn shuffled around her flat in slippers, arguing with herself. _He was only honoring your wishes, _she thought, while the less rational part of her added, _but doesn’t he feel as desperate as I? _

_Obviously not. _Her lips twisted as she began to make a cup of tea. She slammed her mug on the counter a bit too harshly. Pathetic. She had sworn from the moment he stood up from his desk that she would treat him like any other colleague—friendly but distant. And then she had spent the entire proceeding week following his every move with her eyes. At least, when he was available. She had had to fight a fierce disappointment each time she found herself paired with Pippin for the day, even though _that was exactly what she’d asked. _

“Ugh,” she said out loud, just as a knock sounded at her door.

She froze. The clock read half past nine. For a terrifying moment, Éowyn found herself wondering if she had indeed texted Éomer her address and if he had indeed followed through on his threat of finding her in Queenstown.

But, no. As she went to check the peephole, she found something much more alarming.

Faramir stood outside her door, his wavy, dark hair looking freshly washed. He wore a blue cable knit jumper that he managed to make look like haute couture with those wide shoulders. His dark jeans were casual and rumpled, and in his hands he carried a white paper bag and a tray of two takeaway coffees.

In short, he looked mouth-wateringly good.

Éowyn bit back a squeak of surprise, looking down at herself. She wore ancient slippers with cats faces on them, plaid flannel pajama pants, an old harvest festival shirt with long sleeves, and no bra. Her hair was a mess—she’d fallen asleep without drying it, and her natural waves became a monstrous kind of mutant curl whenever that happened. Not to mention she wore not a lick of makeup.

She peered through the peephole again. Faramir waited patiently, albeit with one small line appearing between his eyebrows.

She could pretend she wasn’t home.

But then he would walk away and take those delicious shoulders and steaming coffees back into his ute, and she would never know what he had come to say.

Smoothing her hair with her palms—or attempting to—Éowyn sucked in a steadying breath and opened the door.

He blinked at her, looking a bit stunned. His soft gray eyes trailed down her body and back up again, and instead of making her feel like something that had just crawled out from under a rock, he made her feel—sexy. The way his gaze sharpened on her, the gentle “oh” of surprise from his parted lips—they electrified her. Her skin tingled. She had to cross her arms over her chest. “Good morning,” she said awkwardly.

“Er. Good morning.” He smiled, and it became more difficult to breathe. “I come bearing gifts.” He lifted the bag of pastries and the tray of coffees, as if his presence weren’t gift enough for her. “I-I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got the lot . . .”

The pastry bag was nearly full. She smiled. “Thanks. Um. Come in.” She stepped aside, waiting for him to pass her in that elusive cloud of cedar and freshness before she shut and locked the door at his back. “This way.” She led him down the short hallway into her kitchen, which was a bit old-fashioned and small but not terrible. When she'd decided to rent the flat, she'd been drawn to its coziness, but she became painfully aware of its dusty blinds and dirty dishes as she watched him take a seat. His eyes scanned the room, but they looked more curious than anything, and she wondered what he was thinking. He faced her across the breakfast far, laying out the pastries and coffee.

“I wasn’t sure if you liked it black or white, so—”

"White,” she provided. “No sugar.” She smiled. “But it’s okay. I have milk.” She dug in the fridge and came up with a small carton.

“White, no sugar. Right.” He smiled. “I’m black with two sugars, myself.”

She stared at him, trying not to memorize his coffee order while simultaneously filing it away for safekeeping despite herself.

He cleared his throat, perhaps sensing the new awkwardness in the room. “Listen. I can drop these off and leave if you want. Or . . . I could show you around today. As friends.”

“Friends?” she echoed hollowly.

He nodded. “Yes. You said it yourself yesterday. We hardly know each other. But there’s no rule against being friends with your coworkers. In fact, I’ve heard it’s encouraged.” He smiled tentatively, watching for her response. When she said nothing, he continued. “I grew up around here. I can show you Queenstown. That’s all this is. I promise.”

He was being kind. He was giving her exactly what she needed. But she couldn’t suppress a quick spike of disappointment. _I don’t want to be your friend_, she thought, remembering the feel of his lips against hers, the tangle of his hands in her hair. She wanted that again. But she also wanted to make this job work. And sleeping with the boss you hardly knew didn’t exactly lend itself to that. She swallowed back her emotion and reached for logic instead. “All right,” she said. She picked up one of the coffees and lifted it. “Friends.”

He grinned, choosing the second one and tapping it against hers. “Friends.”

They both sipped, making identical faces of disgust when hers was sweet and his was not.

“That stuff will rot your teeth,” she said as they exchanged cups.

He shrugged. “We all have our vices.”

Éowyn studied him as she poured some milk into her cup. Somehow, he didn’t strike her as the type to have vices at all. In fact, he was almost _too _perfect. “So, what’s in the bag?” she asked, moving the conversation to safer territory.

“Bit of everything. Like I said, I wasn’t sure.” He began taking out pastries and spreading them on the breakfast bar. Lemon poppyseed muffins, almond croissants, mock cream donuts, blueberry scones.

“Good God,” she said, laughing. “You weren’t kidding.”

When the bag was empty, he opened his palms above his wares like a merchant in a market stall. “Well?”

Éowyn studied the pastries while Faramir’s eyes studied _her. _“Why does this feel like some kind of test?”

“No test,” he said. “Only, if you don’t like donuts, I’ll never speak to you again.”

“But then there would be more for you,” she said.

His eyebrows lifted. “Huh. You’re right.” He shrugged. “I guess you’re stuck with me.”

The sun lit his eyes as their gazes clashed across the counter. Éowyn’s breath snagged in her throat. God, he was beautiful. She opened her mouth to tell him she couldn’t do this, couldn’t be only his _friend, _when her mobile phone went off.

“Oh. Sorry,” she said instead. Was that disappointment in his eyes? She searched for the phone on the countertop, forgetting to the check the name before answering in haste. “Hello?”

“Why haven’t you sent me your address yet?”

Éomer’s deep voice was instantly recognizable—and probably carried across the entire flat. Éowyn turned away from the breakfast bar. Little good that would do. “Can’t you just say hi back like a normal brother?” she asked through gritted teeth.

“Maybe if you called me more often, I’d get used to it,” he replied.

“Look, I can’t talk right now—”

“Fine. Then I’ll just have to guess which of these sexual health clinics is closest to you and email you the link.”

_Oh God. _Éowyn glanced over her shoulder to find Faramir fiddling with the lid on his coffee cup. She was going to murder her brother. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Wait. Are you coming to Gamling’s birthday or not? I need to buy tickets soon—”

“Goodbye, Éomer.” She rang off to the sound of his protests on the other end of the line. Fingers shaking a little, she switched her phone to silent so she wouldn’t hear if he called back, which he inevitably would. Setting the phone aside, she said, “Sorry about that.” Her face flamed. “My brother . . . he’s a little protective of me.”

Faramir smiled, but his eyes remained curiously sad. “That’s nice. He must care about you a lot.”

There was some hidden emotion behind his words. Éowyn leaned forward on the counter. “He does,” she said. “He can just be a right git about it sometimes.” _Like when I spend the night with a stranger and he finds out. _Okay, so Éomer did sound a bit more reasonable when she thought of things from that perspective.

“Brothers are like that,” said Faramir, looking back at his coffee cup again.

Something clicked inside Éowyn’s head. “Do you have siblings?”

“An older brother. Boromir. He died last year.”

“Oh, God, I’m sorry.” Éowyn reached out and squeezed his arm, empathy stabbing her in the gut. She couldn’t imagine losing Éomer. Not after everyone else. “I know what it’s like to lose someone,” she said quietly. “You never really get over it, do you?”

Faramir moved his free hand over hers, intertwining their fingers. “No. There’s good days and bad days,” he said.

Éowyn hesitated before asking, “What happened?”

“He was driving during a storm, and . . . his car went off a bridge. He drowned.”

“That’s awful,” said Éowyn. She squeezed his fingers, hoping to convey some of the hurt she felt for Faramir through her touch. At the same time, her own memories tore through her. The squeal of brakes. The terrible, rending cry of metal scraping metal. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

Faramir squeezed back, and some of that warmth drove away the fear. When he lifted his eyes, she was surprised to see him blink away a sheen of moisture. “What about you?” he asked. “Whom have you lost . . . if you don’t mind me asking?”

_Almost everyone_, Éowyn thought. _That’s what happens to the people I love. _But instead she said, “My parents died when I was young. And I lost my cousin and my—my uncle last year.”

Faramir’s brow grew troubled. “I’m so sorry, Éowyn.”

“I’m doing all right now,” she said, though her voice grew hoarse with the weight of her lie. “For a while—” She broke off, not quite sure if she could finish the sentence.

Faramir stood from his chair and came around into the kitchen, wrapping her in his arms. Éowyn hesitated for only a second before she let herself lean into him, resting her forehead on his chest. His chin came to rest atop her head. If she listened closely, she could hear his heartbeat pounding along with her own. She wrapped her arms around his back and held on as if he were her life support. And maybe, in that moment, he was. She felt anchored in a way that she hadn’t in a long time. As if, for once, rather than let herself drift away into the nothingness of loneliness and grief, there was something worth staying for. Something _real. _

After a while, she pulled back, extricating herself from him. She brushed away the wetness on her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “I didn’t mean to make this about me—”

Faramir reached up and brushed away her remaining tears. His fingers cupped her chin and lifted her eyes to his. “You don’t ever have to apologize for giving me comfort,” he said, “or taking it in return. You deserve that, Éowyn.” Then, to her surprise, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead, chaste and sweet. It was like a brush against her heart. She froze, spellbound by his presence.

When he leaned back, he said, “Thank you for trusting me with your story.”

She swallowed against a sudden dryness in her throat. “You, too.”

He hesitated, then stepped back and returned to his seat across from her. “Now. Might I suggest a donut?”

#

After a breakfast, Éowyn asked him to wait while she got dressed, an apology in her voice.

“I’ll be here,” he said, and if there was any hint that he might’ve wanted to join her, he didn’t show it. Éowyn struggled against another illogical wave of disappointment. _Idiot, _she thought. _He’s being a gentleman. _

So when she emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later, he was exactly where she’d left him, and she was now properly dressed in jeans, a white blouse, and a black blazer. Her hair she piled into a loose bun, and around her neck she wound a pale lavender scarf that, she’d been told, pulled out the violet-blue in her gray eyes. _Not that it matters_, she told herself, pretending not to feel pleased when Faramir’s eyes widened slightly in appreciation.

“So, where to?” she asked a few minutes later as they climbed into his ute.

“I was thinking maybe the Queenstown Garden?” he said, watching closely for her reaction.

Her ears perked at the word “garden.” “Oh, yes, please!”

Was that a short breath of relief she heard from him as they drove off?

Fortunately, the sun was out after the storm of the day prior, and a quick drive downtown took them to the peninsula of the Queenstown Garden, jutting out into Lake Wakatipu. Though summer was ending, a few late roses still bloomed in the rose garden, where Faramir and Éowyn wandered first. After that, they began to explore the paths that followed the water’s edge. The reflection of sunlight on the lake spilled warmth into Éowyn’s heart. It took all her restraint not to reach out and grab Faramir’s hand where he walked beside her. Every so often, their arms would brush one another, and he would step another inch away. A splinter fell from her heart each time he did so.

_Foolish, Éowyn, _she told herself, but it was no use.

They kept up a quiet, steady conversation the whole time, Faramir telling her about the high farm where he grew up, then listening with genuine attention while she described Edoras. He had a way of watching her while she spoke that made her feel clumsy and breathless, but he never seemed bored. If anything, his sharpened interest was what threw her off. No one had ever watched her like that before.

As midday came and went, they left the gardens behind, Éowyn with a heart lighter than it had been in months. Perhaps longer. “That was amazing,” she said. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.” His smile faltered. “Um. If you can put up with me a bit longer, I’ve got an idea for lunch . . .?”

It was not a question of putting up with him. Éowyn didn’t want the day to end. “I’d love that,” she said.

His face transformed under a smile of genuine pleasure, and her throat constricted.

Lunch turned out to be a short walk to the base of the Queenstown Gondola. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?” Faramir asked, coming to a sudden halt.

“No.” She looked up to see the small metal gondola cars swinging on the breeze, and her stomach twisted._ Nevermind. _She would be fine . . .

But after they climbed in and the gondola shuddered into motion, she found herself grabbing his arm with a grip so strong she could see the whites of her knuckles. “This thing’s secure, right?” she whispered.

He chuckled, a warm sound that rumbled through her. “Yes. I promise.” He reached up to remove her hand, wrapping his fingers around it instead. “Just hold on to me. Why am I getting the sense you weren’t being entirely honest earlier?”

“Didn’t want to ruin the fun,” she said tightly. Or didn't want to explain why the idea of being crushed in a tin can activated her fight-or-flight response. The gondola swayed, and she closed her eyes.

“It’s a short ride.” His voice cut through her rising panic, exuding calm and control. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His words should have been ridiculous considering that, if they really did go down, there would be nothing he could do. But, to her surprise, they reached inside her and unwound the tightly-coiled dread in her chest.

“Deep breaths,” he said. “Try to hold it for four seconds before you let it out.”

She followed his advice, still gripping his hand, and by the time they reached the top, she found the ice leaving her skin.

“All good?” he asked, still holding her hand as they stepped from the gondola.

“Yeah,” she said, half in wonder, half in disbelief. “I feel okay.”

He squeezed her hand. “Do you want to leave?”

“And not enjoy this lunch we climbed all the way up here for? No, thank you,” she said, stepping toward the glass-fronted restaurant that stood high above the city. “I feel like I’ve earned it now.”

He laughed, allowing her to drag him into the restaurant.

#

The only awkward moment came when Éowyn left the table to use the loo. On her way back, she caught the server removing their empty plates. “Would you or your wife be interested in dessert?”

“Oh—er—she’s not—” Faramir began.

Her heart faltered. _Your wife. _How strange it was to hear those words about herself. And stranger still was the thrill that shivered across her skin at the notion. It was like a static shock, frightening in its immediacy.

“Yes, please,” said Éowyn, stepping in to save Faramir, though her cheeks were turning red. “We’ll look at the menu.”

The rest of the meal was somewhat subdued, and when they made the slow journey back down in the gondola, Éowyn managed to keep her distance. No more clinging. Instead, she practiced steady breathing, and Faramir stood a pace away, watching her with concern. It didn’t work quite as well, but as least she was honoring his request. _Her request. _Whose idea was it to be “just friends” again? Outside, through the glass of the gondola windows, Queenstown unspooled like a tapestry of gold trees and blue water, dulled by the autumnal afternoon light. More clouds began to roll in.

Faramir drove her home in silence save for the somewhat haunting tones of a Tchaikovsky piano concerto on his radio. When he parked the ute in front of her house, cutting the engine and the music, neither of them moved to leave. Éowyn summoned her strength. _It’s better this way. _“I don’t know if—” she began.

But Faramir interrupted her. “Please,” he said. “I know what you’re going to say. Let me say something first.”

She pressed her lips shut, watching him expectantly. Her pulse picked up against her will. His gray eyes had turned sad, hesitant, and she fought an intense urge to reach across and grab his hand.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” he said. “That was the best day I’ve had in a long time.”

She opened her mouth.

“And yet,” he continued, speaking quickly now, “I know what you’re thinking. We can’t do this. We can’t be—just friends.” He shifted in his seat to face her. “Éowyn, please don’t give up on us yet. I want to spend time with you, whatever that looks like. And I promise I can keep my distance. At least, I promise to try.” He watched her closely. “Will you give me another chance to prove it to you?”

She swallowed. Sometimes his gaze could be so serious, so intense, that it took all her strength just to meet it. There was something frightening about his inherent openness. He carried the forthright directness of someone who had never dissembled in his life. Éowyn wondered how she could live up to that. But that quality also made him impossible to deny. He was being honest with her. He was genuine.

She owed him the same.

“I-I had an amazing time today, too,” she said. “Thank you. For everything.”

The line reappeared between his eyebrows in a look that she was beginning to recognize as consternation. “That doesn’t sound like a yes.”

“No, it’s just . . .” She hesitated. “I’m scared,” she admitted. _Damn, that was difficult to say._ She glanced at him for his reaction.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t mock her. He merely watched her, waiting for more.

A box that had been locked inside her began to rattle in her chest. “I don’t want to get hurt,” she admitted. “I came here to do a job. To start a life for myself. That matters to me. I don’t want to screw it up.”

He nodded. He was being so serious, listening so closely. She kept waiting for an expression of disbelief that never came. “I can understand that,” he said.

His somber attention encouraged her to say more. “And I don’t want to hurt you.” There it was. Out in the open.

He blinked. The line between his brows deepened. Then he scooted slightly closer to her, careful to keep a good six inches between them on the front seat. “Listen.” He ducked his face to meet her eyes. “Why don’t you let me worry about me?” His gaze softened. “It’s my choice, and I’m choosing to be your friend.”

“But . . .” Her throat felt dry. The words died on her tongue.

“Here.” He dug in his pocket, pulling out his mobile. “I’ll give you my number, and you can think it over. If you decide you want to be friends, I’ll be here. If you don’t . . . I will understand. And I’ll leave you alone. I promise.” His voice cracked a little on the last word, but his face was so calm and controlled she almost thought she had imagined it.

She hesitated. In her heart, the locked box of emotions she had pushed aside for so long rattled again, demanding her attention. In her head, the logical voice she so often relied upon was nowhere to be found. “Okay,” she said.

After they exchanged numbers, she climbed out of the ute, standing with one hand on the open door.

“Goodbye, Éowyn,” said Faramir, his hands loose on the steering wheel.

“Goodbye.”

She felt his eyes on her all the way back to her flat, goosebumps prickling on her skin.

#

Éowyn wandered through her flat, tidying it up a bit here and there. Outside, another storm was brewing, despite the fair weather they’d enjoyed that morning. This felt suitable to her restless mood. She changed into pajamas. She brewed a cup of tea. Rain started a low drumbeat on the windowpane.

Her phone rang.

She raced over to it, only to see Éomer’s name flashing on the screen. She let it go to voicemail. That was his fourth time calling her that day, not including the time she’d answered. Guilt whipped across her. She just wasn’t ready for more of his exhortations. Not yet.

When the ringtone eventually died and her phone screen faded to blank again, she picked it up. She held it for a few seconds. Then she put it down.

Outside, thunder crashed. She drank her tea. As she poured in a dash more of milk, she watched her phone, black and silent on the countertop.

With a hearty sigh, she thought, _fuck it. _She knew exactly what she would do. She’d known the moment Faramir said, _Goodbye, Éowyn_, in that sad, defeated tone. 

She picked up her phone. _What are you doing next Saturday? _she texted him. She hit send before she could stop herself.

Faramir’s response came immediately.

_Hanging out with you?_

She hugged the phone to her chest. She couldn’t help the giddy, lighthearted feeling that rose in her, expanding like a jellyfish. But as the rain began to pour in earnest, darkness seeping into the room, her smile faded. What was she doing? What, oh what, was she thinking?

Her phone flashed again.

_What are your thoughts on hiking? _He asked.

She chewed her lip. Her fingers were shaking as she typed back, _I love it. _

And as she hit send, she thought, _Perhaps not the most cautious choice of words. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time... Faramir agrees to do Éowyn a very large favor. 
> 
> He may or may not regret it. :)
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading. <3


	4. Home Sweet Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading so far!! Each comment and kudos brings a huge smile to my face. I hope this chapter makes you smile in return <3
> 
> _I can't help but love you_  
_Even though I try not to_  
\- Ruelle, "War of Hearts"

Faramir tried for a fifth time to concentrate on the patient file in his hands, but it was no use. Across the hall from him, inside the breakroom, he could see Éowyn deep in conversation with Sam, their receptionist. A few waves of blonde hair had already slipped loose from her practical plait, and it was only half past nine in the morning. Yet he thought she was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

_Dammit, Faramir. _That wasn’t the kind of thought that screamed “platonic best friends,” now was it? But it had only taken one week of dinners after work and a day of hiking for him to realize he was falling for her.

Hell. He’d realized that the moment she said “Hi” back in Wellington two weeks prior.

He summoned all his willpower and got about six words into the file when Pippin stopped at the edge of his field of vision. Faramir glanced up. “Need me for something?”

“I was just wondering if there was anything the matter with your office.”

“No.” Faramir frowned. “Why do you ask?”

"Chair’s not broken? Heat still works?”

“Of course,” said Faramir, his confusion mounting.

“Which is why you’re here. Reading a file. In the middle of the hallway.” Pippin glanced toward the breakroom door. “There’s absolutely no other reason.”

Faramir shot a look into the breakroom as well, but Éowyn was getting some milk from the fridge and didn’t appear to have heard. Sam was still chattering her ear off about a new recipe. Thank God. Satisfied, Faramir turned to Pippin and waved him down the hall, into his office. Only when the door shut behind them did Faramir find it safe to speak. “What part of ‘don’t talk about it’ was unclear?” he said.

“What did I say? I said nothing.” Pippin crossed his arms, feigning innocence.

“If you said nothing,” Faramir asked through gritted teeth, “then why does Legolas think I’m, and I quote, ‘in love’ with our newest employee?”

“Well . . . are you?”

Faramir pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not the point.”

“Yes, it absolutely is the point. I see the way you look at her. You’re like an addict hanging around the breakroom, hoping to get a fix.”

Faramir narrowed his eyes. “I am not _addicted_ to her.”

“Is that why you went out to dinner with her four out of five nights last week?”

“It was only fish and chips or takeaway—hang on—how do you even _know _that? Have you been following us?”

Pippin rolled his eyes. “Honestly. I talk to her, you know. She _tells _me things.”

Faramir blinked. “She does?”

“Not nearly enough. But she did mention that you’ve been showing her around town.” Pippin grinned. “You sly dog.”

“It’s not like that, Pippin.”

“You keep saying so,” said Pippin, “and yet I almost walk into you hovering in the hallway at least once a day.”

“I was going to make a cup of tea.”

“Right,” said Pippin, tapping his nose. “Whatever you say, boss. Look, I’m the one on call this weekend, okay? Consider it a favor.”

“There’s no need for that,” Faramir said hastily. “I don’t have plans.” Pippin saw far more than he should—and for that reason, it would be smart for Faramir to stay away from Éowyn for the weekend. He could work on the legal paperwork, perhaps even visit his father . . . He shuddered internally at the thought.

“Sure you don’t,” said Pippin, tapping his nose again. “Because we never had this conversation.”

He turned and left before Faramir could protest.

#

At the end of their shift, when Éowyn knocked on Faramir’s open door and said, “Fancy something from that Korean place again?” he opened his mouth to respond with a firm negative. He was caught off guard when “That sounds great” came out instead.

_Shit. _

But Éowyn grinned at his answer, and he found he couldn’t regret anything that made her look like that. In fact, he’d noticed her smiling a bit more each day, and he liked to think it was because she enjoyed their time together as much as he did. Even if she wasn’t interested in something more—she could hardly deny the fact that they understood one another. They _clicked. _

“Great,” she was saying when he tuned back in. “I’ll just grab my things. Do you mind driving?”

“Not at all.”

They were climbing out of his ute at the restaurant when her mobile went off. “Damn,” she said, digging it from her pocket. But it wasn’t a patient. The name on the screen read, _Éomer. _And Faramir knew well enough by now that that was her protective older brother.

“You should answer it,” he said softly. “I can wait.”

She made an apologetic face, but she did end up swiping to answer the call. “Hi,” she said.

Faramir went to stand a polite distance away, trying not to eavesdrop. She dropped her voice, too, careful to keep her tone to a low murmur. A soft breeze carrying the smells of autumn—dead leaves and moisture on the air—stirred Faramir’s hair against his cheeks. He ran a hand over his face. Then he heard a sharp sound, and turned.

Éowyn stood staring at her phone in her hands with a look of horror on her face.

Faramir rushed over. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She blinked, first at the now-blank phone screen, then up at him. She looked stunned. “I just did something really stupid.”

Faramir couldn’t resist putting his hands on her shoulders, trying to ground her, to give comfort. She looked as if she needed it. “I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t fix.”

“No, it’s—” Her eyes seemed to focus on him, and a renewed look of alarm crossed her face. “Oh, God, I’m an idiot.” Her hands flew up to cover her eyes, phone still clutched in one of them.

“Hey. It’s all right.” Faramir took her in his arms, pressing her head gently on his shoulder. She was trembling. “It’s all right.”

After a minute, he felt her shoulders shake, and he worried that something was seriously wrong. Was she crying? He squeezed her harder, and he heard a sound muffled in his shirt, like a sob. His heart broke for her. “Éowyn—” he began gently.

But then she leaned back from him, gasping for breath, and he was realized she was laughing, the kind of hysterical laughter that sometimes happened when people were in shock.

“Éowyn?”

She gasped for breath, smothering her laughter in her hands. Then, with what appeared to be a great effort, she sobered and stepped back, out of his grasp. His hands fell to his sides. “What’s wrong?” he asked, more warily now.

“I’m sorry.” Smothered laughter. “It’s—it’s not funny.” She covered her mouth with her hands again. “I might’ve just told Éomer you were coming to Edoras with me.”

Faramir was sure he’d misheard. “I’m sorry. What?”

She choked on another laugh, then dropped her hands. “I told Éomer you were coming home. To Edoras. With me.”

Faramir blinked at her.

“This weekend,” she said, and panic poured from her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. He’s been bugging me for ages about going home—and there’s this birthday party for a family friend this weekend, so he kept trying to buy me tickets . . . and then I told him I had plans, you know, to get him off my back, and then he asked about my plans and I panicked and said . . . I said I had a date.”

Faramir’s heart pounded in his ears.

“And then he said if I had a date, he wanted to meet my date, and before I could hang up he was asking me my date’s name, and I just—I just—said yours.” She fell silent, looking stricken.

Faramir stared for a few more seconds, trying to decide the best way to approach this new challenge. Part of him was singing in triumph—the less rational part. The logical half of his brain was reminding him of how he had already decided to stay away from her this weekend.

Going home to meet her brother didn’t exactly qualify as staying away.

“It’s okay,” she said quickly, watching his face. “I’ll call him back. I’ll call him back right now and tell him you can’t make it.” She was already pulling up his number.

“No,” said Faramir. He put a hand out to stop her, covering her own. Her fingers twitched beneath his touch. “No . . . wait.”

She stared at him with wide eyes. Her pulse was pounding so quickly that he could see it fluttering in her neck.

“I can go,” he said. His voice sounded very far away to his own ears. “Pippin’s on call this weekend. I can go.”

Éowyn’s fingers twitched again beneath his, almost as if she were about to drop her phone. “Are you serious?” Was that relief dawning in her eyes? Just as quickly, it faded. “No. What am I saying? That wouldn’t be fair to you. That’s a terrible idea. I’m sorry.” She freed her hand and started typing on her phone again.

“Éowyn. It’s fine. If you want me there, I’ll be there. Nothing has to change. Consider it a friendly favor.” To himself he thought: _you really are fucked, you know that? _But he found himself wanting that relief, that happiness, to break again across her face. And when it did—so softly, so tentatively, as if she couldn’t really believe his words—his heart ached for even more. _Completely fucked. _

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said firmly, turning toward the restaurant. “Consider it done.”

#

That Saturday, as Faramir’s taxi dropped him outside the airport in the pre-dawn gray, he found himself wondering if perhaps Pippin was onto something. “Addiction” sounded far too accurate. That was the only way this craziness made sense. For here he was, overnight bag packed, tickets booked, suit cleaned and fussed over. Hell, he’d even shaved. He ran a hand down his now-smooth chin, feeling strangely naked as he went inside and got in the queue to check his bag.

Éowyn was meeting him through security. He was the kind of person who arrived painfully early for his air travel—better that than miss a flight—so he didn’t expect to see her as he made it through the security check. Yet there she was, leaning against a back wall with her hair spilling over her shoulders, a hand-knitted hat pulled over her head. Once again, she stole his breath away. When she looked up and smiled, he had to steady himself before crossing over to meet her.

“You’re one of the early ones,” she said as he approached. “I knew it.”

“Guilty as charged,” he said.

Her face took on an arrested look, and he wondered if he had spilled something on his shirt. But then she lifted a hand and softly, so softly, cupped it against his cheek. “You shaved,” she said.

"Yeah. I hope it’s not too strange.”

She gave him a lopsided smile. “It’s very strange. I was so used to the beard . . .”

“Sorry.”

“No, no, I mean, it’s not bad, it’s just . . . different.” She dropped her hand, a flush staining her cheeks. “I feel terrible. Look how I’m putting you out.”

Faramir managed to keep his voice level despite his pounding heart. “Don’t be ridiculous. It took me all of five minutes, and it was long overdue.”

“And you dressed up,” she said, eying him up and down. He didn’t think his nice trousers and button-up blue shirt really qualified as “dressing up,” but if they provoked that appreciative gleam in her eyes, he’d have to wear them more often. He felt his own ears grow red. _Not platonic, _said his more logical half, and he began to look around for a distraction.

“Coffee?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, eyes lowering. “Coffee sounds great.”

Their chatter became more comfortable as they got their drinks and took seats waiting at the appropriate gate. It wasn’t until the boarding process began that Éowyn’s strange transformation began to take place.

First, her answers devolved into one or two words. Then, she fell silent, watching the people ahead of them as they crept closer and closer to the boarding door. Faramir had to gently get her attention before she remembered to hand her boarding pass over to the gate attendant. When they reached their seats and buckled in, Éowyn closest to the window, she began to chew on her nails, pulling the sleeves of her jumper over her hands. By the time they’d taken off, her leg bounced beside his, and her poor nails were absolutely shredded.

“Is everything all right?” Faramir asked.

Éowyn hadn’t looked away from the window since taking her seat. “Fine,” she said distantly, around another nail.

Faramir reached out and slid his hand around hers, intertwining their fingers. He lowered her nails safely out of reach. “Are you sure?”

She looked first at their intertwined hands, then up at him. She seemed to come back to herself, her eyes focusing, before managing a weak smile. “Is it that obvious?”

He squeezed her fingers. Her hand was cold to his touch. “Yes. But you don’t have to talk about it unless you want to.”

She stared down at their hands again. She seemed to be fighting a battle within herself, and Faramir waited with as much patience as he could, knowing that nothing he could say would determine its outcome for her. He simply sat, trying to radiate acceptance and comfort through their closely-pressed palms.

After a while, she said, “Did you . . . find it hard to go home? After Boromir died?”

His fingers twitched in surprise, but he didn’t let her go. In fact, it felt _good _to hear her say his brother’s name. So many people had been afraid to mention him after his death, which made everything somehow worse. “God, yes,” Faramir said, after a moment. “You, too?”

She flushed. “I haven’t been back. Not since my uncle’s funeral.”

Faramir shifted in his seat to face her. His knee brushed her leg, but she didn’t move away. “When was that?”

“Last November.”

_Christ. _Only four months gone. In the timeline of grief, that was practically yesterday. It had been over a year since Boromir’s accident, and Faramir still woke sometimes from a vivid dream of his brother doing mundane things—pulling weeds, or pouring out their newest vintage into a tasting glass. To find Boromir gone all over again was like losing him anew each night. “And you’re worried about Edoras bringing it all back.” It wasn’t a question. Faramir, too, saw his brother in everything each time he drove home to visit his father. And it didn’t help that his father spoke of Boromir as if he might still return. But that was a different discussion entirely, for a different time.

Éowyn nodded in response to his statement, and something like relief smoothed her brow. “I knew you would understand.”

He hesitated. Perhaps talking about her uncle would bring her the same comfort he found in sharing Boromir’s memory. “What was he like?”

She glanced out the window, joy and sorrow mixing on her face. “He was dedicated. Hardworking. Sometimes he could be—distant—but deep down, he cared.” Her voice grew quiet. “He cared so much.”

“He raised you? After your parents. . . ?”

“After they died, yes. Me and my brother.” Just like that, her face shuttered again, as if to put up a shield against the world. Faramir’s heart broke for her. He imagined her younger self: happy-go-lucky, free from care. And how the world had crushed that. He squeezed her hand.

“I’m glad to see the place where you grew up,” he said. “Maybe you can tell me more about him.”

“I’d like that.” Her voice still wavered, but her smile was genuine. “Thank you.”

“And if you’d prefer to talk about literally anything else, we can do that, too,” he said. An idea occurred to him that might actually be of help. “In fact, why don’t we come up with a system?”

“A system?”

He nodded. “A signal, you know? If you’re in the middle of a conversation and you need to escape, you can just send me the signal and I’ll come over and interrupt. Or cause a distraction.”

A slow half-smile spread across her face. “A distraction?”

“You know, jumping on tables, spilling my beer, that kind of thing.”

That startled a short laugh out of her, and he felt a flash of triumph. “I can’t imagine you doing that. You’re so—put together.”

He smiled at the compliment, though he hardly felt that way most of the time. _Is that how she sees me? _“I’m happy to humiliate myself for a good cause,” he said. “What should the signal be?”

She thought for a moment, her nose wrinkling up. “Cough?”

“But what if we actually have to cough?

“Itching your nose?”

“Same question.”

“I mean, how often do you really itch your nose?” she asked, and when he reached up and scratched the tip of her nose lightly, she smiled. “Fine. You choose.”

“How about rubbing your temple? Like this?” With his left hand, his free hand that she wasn’t holding, he rubbed a small circle on his left temple, at the edge of his hairline. It was the sort of move he sometimes made when he had a headache.

“Like this?” She echoed his movement with her free right hand.

“Exactly.”

She pursed her lips, thinking. “All right. Deal.”

“Good.” Their legs were still pressed together, warm in the cold air of the plane cabin. Faramir felt an answering warmth somewhere in the center of his chest. “Is there anything else I should know about before we land?” he asked.

She thought for a moment, looking back down at their held hands. “I’ve heard my brother can be kind of intimidating.”

_From whom? Ex-boyfriends? _Faramir pushed a spike of jealousy aside. “I’ll have to be extra firm when I shake his hand,” he joked, fighting a rush of nervousness he hadn’t expected. What if Éowyn’s brother couldn’t stand him?

She studied him intently. “Have you ever ridden a horse?”

“I have, actually, yeah.” Memories of racing up and down the vineyard lanes with Boromir flashed through his head. “Is that part of the intimidation process?”

“No. But I think you might’ve just earned some bonus points.”

“I’ll take as many of those as I can get,” he said.

When the cabin attendant arrived to take their drink orders a moment later, Éowyn slipped her hand free from Faramir’s grasp. But the half-smile didn’t leave her features, even as they fell back into a companionable silence.

And it wasn’t until he was staring at the clouds rushing past the plane window that Faramir thought, _What the hell do you need bonus points for? You’re only trying to be her friend._

#

Faramir’s unease mounted as they disembarked and made their way to the baggage claim. “Wait,” he said, pausing in the middle of the airport walkway.

Éowyn frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I just want to get the story straight. Are we . . .” He cleared his throat. “Are we dating or aren’t we?”

“Christ, I’m sorry. I’m the worst. I told Éomer we had a date. But it’s . . . it’s probably best if we say we’re just friends?”

Faramir hesitated. He wanted to support her, to show up and be what she needed in this moment. But he could barely keep up the pretense of friendship as it was. If he were to pretend to be dating her . . . Well, it might start to feel a bit _too _real. He wasn’t sure he could go back. “Yeah. I think that might be better.”

She chewed her lip. “Okay. Friends. I’ll explain to Éomer, don’t worry.”

_And what’s that going to sound like? _Faramir wondered, as they began walking toward the baggage claim again. He would’ve liked to hear an explanation himself. But he dismissed such thoughts from his mind as they rounded the corner, leaving the secure section of the airport. He’d agreed to do this. He would follow through.

At his side, Éowyn drew a sharp breath. Up ahead of them, a large, broad-shouldered man stood with his arms crossed, biceps bulging beneath a loose-fitting flannel shirt. With the shirt and the man bun, he could almost have been mistaken for a hipster type, if not for his dirtied jeans and his thick, well-worn farmer’s boots. Faramir’s throat tightened.

“Éowyn,” said the man sternly as they approached. His eyes flicked over to Faramir, narrowing as they looked him up and down. There was a keen intellect in his gaze, as well as a ruthless warning for any foe: _you’ll not find me unguarded. _In fact, the distrust in his eyes reminded Faramir distantly of Éowyn. “You landed early.”

“It’s good to see you,” Éowyn said, a slight break in her voice, and then the man’s careful shield broke as he uncrossed his arms and pulled his sister into a crushing embrace. She gripped him in return, burying her face in his shoulder.

When they stepped back, Faramir felt somehow privileged to have witnessed the tender moment. Éomer gathered his stern persona back to himself, meeting Faramir’s gaze. “So you’re the bloke.”

“This is Faramir,” Éowyn said with a warning note in her voice. “My _friend. _Be nice.”

A flash in Éomer’s eyes told Faramir that he hadn’t missed the emphasis on “friend.” But he didn’t push it. Instead, he held out his hand. “I’m always nice,” he said, in a tone that said exactly the opposite.

Faramir shook his hand. “Faramir Steward. Nice to meet you.”

Éomer’s eyebrows rose. “Steward? From the South Island? Not _the _Stewards, the wine family?” 

Éowyn shot Faramir a confused glance. He cleared his throat. “Actually, yes. That’s me.” Was that a hurt look on Éowyn’s face? He’d mentioned his family’s high-altitude farm, but he hadn’t gone into more detail about what, exactly, they grew.

An impressed look stole into Éomer’s eyes, followed by assessment. “Well. New Zealand’s a small place. I think we have mutual friends.”

“Do we?” Faramir suddenly remembered Pippin. “You mean Pippin Took? I think his cousin worked on your farm for a time.”

“No,” said Éomer slowly, “although that’s true. That’s not who I mean.”

But before Faramir could ask more, the baggage alarm sounded, and suitcases began spilling out. Faramir noticed his own among the first few—which almost never happened—and excused himself to pull it off the track.

He glanced over his shoulder as he straightened, bag in hand. Éomer was muttering something low and long to Éowyn, who looked first surprised, then nervous. _Shit. _Faramir wracked his brain, trying to think of who he might know who’d caused trouble here. He didn’t exactly have many friends. 

But Éowyn caught him looking, and her face cleared. He smiled tentatively, trying to regain his footing, and to his great relief, she smiled back. Then she started walking over. When she moved to pull her bag off beside him, he took it for her, lowering it to the ground.

“Everything okay?” he asked as he passed the handle over to her.

“Great,” she said. “And now you’ve met Éomer.”

“You two seem a lot alike.”

“You think so?” She looked surprised but pleased. Had no one ever told her how strong and formidable she and her brother both were?

“Very much so.”

Éomer appeared beside them. Gruffly, he said, “I’ll take that,” but Éowyn rolled her eyes and said, “I’ve got it.” Éomer shrugged, then turned to lead them to where he’d parked.

As they began to drive away from the airport, Éomer caught Faramir’s eye in the rearview mirror. “How did you two meet again?”

Shit. That would’ve been good to work out before this moment. Faramir opened his mouth, but Éowyn interrupted. “Friend of a friend. In Queenstown.”

Éomer shot her a surprised look. “You have friends there?”

“Coworkers,” she said through gritted teeth. “There’s no need to sound so surprised.”

“You’ve only been there two weeks, that’s all. Although it explains why you ignore all my calls.”

“That’s just because I don’t like being pestered.”

“I do not _pester_—”

Faramir attempted to change the subject before Éowyn’s harried look grew any more severe. “So, where exactly is Edoras in relation to the city?”

“About forty minutes northwest,” said Éomer. His pride in his farm came through with every word. “It’s in the Ohariu Valley. Ever been?”

“Can’t say I have, no.”

“You’ll like it,” said Éomer, so confident, so sure. “We’re mostly horse breeders, but we’ve got lambs now, too. And I’m looking into planting some vines.”

“You are?” Éowyn asked.

“Yes. I told you—”

“No, you didn’t—”

“Well, maybe it was one of those calls you ignored.”

“Éomer—”

The siblings fell into a hushed battle in the front seats. Faramir wondered if he should interrupt again, but Éowyn’s voice was steady, and he knew she could handle herself. So he sat back instead, letting the scenery outside the jeep rush over him. The cityscape soon diminished into suburbs, then into green, rolling hills. It became very clear why Éomer was so confident that Faramir would like the place. The landscape surrounding their long, lonely road was so beautiful and rugged, only a blind man could remain unmoved.

After a while, the siblings fell silent, and Faramir caught a glimpse of Éowyn’s face in the side mirror. Her forehead leaned against the window, her gaze locked on the hills rolling past. She looked peaceful, even serene, save for her eyes, where sadness lingered. He recognized nostalgia when he saw it. He felt it himself, driving home.

He began to understand why she needed someone here with her, someone from outside. And he felt a deep sense of gratitude that she trusted him enough to ask him. She had lost so much. Perhaps she had lost a bit of herself, too.

Their arrival at Edoras jerked Faramir from his thoughts. The farm was up on a lonely hilltop, overlooking the surrounding valley with a kingly view. As Éomer cut the engine and they climbed from the car, the wet-grass smell of their surroundings hit Faramir’s nostrils. Éowyn closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, breathing it in.

Faramir couldn’t resist nudging her with his elbow. She opened her eyes. “Welcome home,” he said.

She smiled.

“Here’s your bag,” said Éomer, stepping between them. He shoved the suitcase roughly into Faramir’s hands. “I’ve got yours, Éowyn.”

“Thanks,” she said, drily, and they followed Éomer towards the large white house at the center of the farm.

“I thought your _friend _might want to stay in the fort,” said Éomer lightly.

“Éomer,” Éowyn began in a warning tone.

“What? I thought you’d approve. It’s got a good atmosphere.”

“You know very well it’s not heated.”

“It’s plenty warm,” said Éomer.

“I don’t mind,” Faramir spoke up, and he truly didn’t. If this was some kind of test of his manhood, Éomer might be surprised to learn of all the nights Faramir and Boromir had slept out under the stars with nothing but thin blankets they pulled from their beds.

“There. See?” Éomer said to Éowyn, who rolled her eyes. “It’s just over there,” Éomer continued, pointing to the right of the house. Faramir could see a lone outbuilding beneath the shade of large beech. “You might want to drop off your bag.”

“All right.” Faramir turned in that direction, but he paused, deliberately meeting Éowyn’s eyes. She looked apologetic. “See you in a bit?” he said. _I’m here if you need me, _he thought. _Just say the word. _He hoped she could read it on his face.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll come find you and give you the tour.”

“Perfect,” said Faramir, and she seemed to relax. Éomer glanced between them, his brows lowering. So be it. Faramir was here for Éowyn, no one else.

“The fort” turned out to be a small, cozy hut with a wide mattress on the floor and four walls full of books. A small, attached loo was the only other room in the place. Any wall space not taken up by bookshelves was papered with old drawings and handmade maps. Faramir dropped his bag on the mattress, grinning to himself at the sight of a crayon drawing peeling off the wall. Stick figures of a little blonde girl and a brown-haired boy rode on four-legged black shapes that could only be horses. At the bottom, in sloppy letters, he read, _me and Éomer. _It looked to be the handiwork of a nine-year-old Éowyn.

Faramir circled the room, pulling a few books off the wall, thumbing through them, putting them back. When he reached the far corner, he found a string of fairy lights waiting to be plugged in, and when he did, the room lit with molten gold. A small treasure box on one shelf was full of random findings—a glittering geode, a sharpened pencil, some pick and mix candies from ages gone by. Faramir felt a twinge of something in his chest. Clearly this place had been Éowyn and Éomer’s hideout.

A younger Faramir would’ve been excessively jealous of such a place. The sheer number of books would’ve blown his mind—in fact, even as an adult, he’d found more in here to interest him that he probably would at the party later. But that wasn’t the only thing that gave him an achy, piercing feeling in his chest. He circled back to Éowyn’s drawing again.

The door opened, and he turned to find the artist herself leaning on the jamb. “I swear he put you in here just to embarrass me.”

“Why are you embarrassed?” He pointed. “You captured your hair perfectly.”

She came to stand beside him, eying the drawing disdainfully. Then, to his surprise, she smiled. “You’re more right than you know.” The girl in the drawing wore a cloud of blonde around her head, completely untamed.

“Let me guess,” said Faramir. “You were a wild one.”

“Not at all,” said Éowyn. “I was always calm, and sedate, and well-behaved.” Her grin gave away her lie.

“How utterly boring,” said Faramir. And despite his best efforts, he couldn’t suppress that aching feeling as it grew in his chest. Quite suddenly, he realized what it was. _Longing. _An image filled his head, of a girl with her mother’s wild blonde hair, racing down the vineyard lanes or over these green hills.

_Can you not control yourself for one second?_

Why did the logical part of his brain always sound like Boromir?

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” Éowyn asked. “You don’t have to stay out here if you don’t want to.”

Faramir forced himself to meet her gaze. “It’s fine,” he said. “No problem at all.”

#

When they were leaving to go on a walking tour of the farm, a short, curly-haired man with a lively smile hailed them down. “Éowyn!”

She waited for him to jog over and gave him a swift hug. When she stepped back, she said, “Faramir, this is Merry. Pippin’s cousin.”

Merry pulled a face. “I worry when you introduce me like that.”

“No need. It’s a compliment.” Faramir held out his hand. “Nice to finally meet you. Pippin’s said nothing but good things.”

“Likewise,” said Merry, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, and Faramir’s gut clenched. _Uh-oh. _

“Pippin’s been talking about Faramir?” Éowyn asked, frowning. “What did he say?”

“That is between me and my cousin,” said Merry haughtily.

_I’m going to put Pippin on call every weekend for the next two months, _Faramir thought wryly.

“But just so I get the story straight,” Merry continued, unable to suppress a sly grin, “how are we telling Éomer you met?”

_Make that three months, _Faramir thought, _plus holidays._ His ears heated despite himself. Pippin had even told Merry about Wellington? He glanced at Éowyn, who wore a similar look of alarm.

Merry laughed at both of them. “Relax. I won’t say a word.” He tapped his nose in an eerie imitation of his cousin. “What’s this about a tour?”

If Faramir felt a hint of disappointment that they wouldn’t be alone, it disappeared rapidly in Merry’s pleasant company. The younger man kept up a stream of light conversation, relating tales of his first summer working on the farm. Éowyn joined in on occasion, sharing pranks she’d pulled that left Merry wiping his eyes with laughter. It was nice to see this side of her.

The farm itself was well-organized and kept in top shape. They passed a working barn, stables, a gate to pasture, and a storage shed before they made their slow way back along the ridge toward the main house. A light breeze tossed their hair to the west as they walked.

Éowyn drifted back from beside Merry to tug on Faramir’s sleeve. “What do you think?” she asked. She seemed almost shy of his answer.

“I’m envious of anyone who grew up in such a wonderful place.”

She flushed with pleasure, but her eyes held disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, but finally decided to say the next words. “And I can tell it’s well cared for.”

“It’s true. Éomer puts his heart and soul into this place.”

Faramir bumped her arm. “I was talking about you.”

She watched him, wide-eyed. “What?”

“You love this place. It’s clear in every word you say.”

Her flush grew darker. She glanced ahead at Merry, who promptly pretended to be gazing at the cloudless sky. Then her hand snaked over and gave Faramir’s arm a brief squeeze. “Thanks,” she said. “I do love it here.”

There was a “but” at the end of that sentence, though she didn’t say it. Faramir was tempted to prompt her, but he decided to let the moment pass. Beneath his admiration of her was a helpless feeling of insignificance by comparison. Some things about her life were falling into place for him.

Queenstown was a waiting zone. A holding pattern. She’d be back here someday, among the hills and the people she loved, once she stopped running.

And . . . was there a place for him in all of that?

He caught Éowyn watching him with a strange look on her face. He opened his mouth to say something, _anything, _to throw her off the direction of his thoughts. But he was saved when his mobile rang in his pocket.

“Sorry,” he said. She waved his apology aside, hurrying to walk beside Merry once again. Faramir answered quickly. “Hello?”

“Faramir?”

“Aragorn. Hi.” _Shit. _Did Éowyn glance back over her shoulder at him, worry on her brow? Faramir didn’t have time to analyze it. He fell back a few more steps. “What’s up?”

“Do you have a minute to talk?”

“Um, a minute, yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll keep it short.” Aragorn sighed on the other end of the line. “I know you don’t want me down in Queenstown. But I have a proposal to make.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to come down—”

“But . . . your dad. I know. Look, I’d planned to ask you this in person, but . . . what would you say to running the property for me for a while?”

Faramir stopped. Up ahead, Éowyn glanced back again, frowning in earnest this time. “What?” Faramir asked.

Aragorn chuckled on the other end of the line. “I’m guessing you weren’t expecting that.”

“Not really. I’ve been looking for other vet jobs—”

“Really? You’re leaving the practice?”

“Oh. Yeah. Maybe. Well, I’m not sure yet.” Faramir couldn’t help but watch Éowyn where she walked up the hill, a tall, slim figure against the deep velvet green of the grass at her feet. “I kind of . . . met someone.”

“That’s great! That’s fantastic. Good for you. But . . . I take it that means you’re pulling back a bit? From work?”

“Not exactly. I just need a new job. Long story.”

“All right.” Aragorn was exactly the sort of man who wouldn’t ask too many questions, which was part of why Faramir liked him so much. “Does that mean you might be interested? It’s a far cry from the vet stuff, but it’s nothing you aren’t familiar with.”

Faramir’s head rang with the question. Through the long legal battle between his father and Aragorn, Faramir had never imagined there might be a place for him at the vineyards when the dust settled at last. But it could be the answer he was looking for. He cared about his vet work, but after Boromir’s death, it wasn’t quite the same. To be back amongst the vines, managing the estate—it would be a return to what he loved best.

Up ahead, Éowyn and Merry stopped to wait for him. Éowyn lifted a hand and shielded her eyes from the sun, looking down to where Faramir stood. The wind picked up her hair and swirled it around her face, blocking her expression from his view. Impatiently, she swept it aside, seeking his gaze. Even from a distance away, he felt her eyes meet his.

He had an even better reason for leaving the practice, now.

“Faramir?” Aragorn asked quietly. “You can think it over. I’m coming down to Queenstown next week. Want to let me know then?”

Faramir hesitated. Was he ready for such a commitment? Was Éowyn?

“We’ll drive out to the vines I had in mind. I think you’ll approve.” Aragorn’s voice carried a hint of hope.

“That sounds great,” Faramir said. “Thank you.”

“Of course. You’re the only person I’d trust with it. Can we meet up next week?”

“Sure. Next week.” Faramir hardly knew what he was saying. His body spiked with sudden electricity, a mix of excitement and anxiety at the thought of making such a change. But beneath all of that was the surety that something had finally gone right. He found himself grinning. Up ahead, Éowyn matched his look with an uncertain smile.

“See you then,” Aragorn said.

After ringing off, Faramir jogged to meet Éowyn and Merry, sliding his phone in his pocket.

“Good news?” Éowyn asked, her face wary.

“Very good,” Faramir said, and he felt the truth of it to his core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts. :)
> 
> Sidenote: I'll be updating tags as I finish up writing this fic (almost done), so please do keep an eye out for any changes, in case that impacts your desire to keep reading.


	5. A Dance and a Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your comments, kudos, and reading! This chapter got a bit longer than the others, for reasons which will become clear ;) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!
> 
> _You said watch your step_  
_Walk softer, softer_  
_'Cause dreams are growing beneath our feet._  
\- Bret Dennen, "I Only Want You"

Something changed in Faramir after his phone call. As they finished up their tour and went towards the main house for lunch, Éowyn couldn’t help but feel he was lighter somehow. He smiled and joked with Merry more freely, the line gone from between his brows.

This worried her.

She couldn’t un-hear Éomer’s words in the airport, when he’d first picked them up. _Faramir’s a friend of Aragorn’s, you know. Family stuff. Long story. _

Just like that. As if the news weren’t earth-shattering.

Had Faramir told Aragorn that he’d met her? What would Aragorn say? “Oh, Éowyn was in love with me for two years”? She cringed at the thought.

As they reached the front door of the house, Faramir held it open for her, his brows lowering in concern. “Everything okay?” he asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Fine.” She’d gotten pretty good at telling that particular lie.

But Faramir saw right through her. He leaned forward, his look of concern growing deeper. “Don’t forget about our signal,” he said.

She could smell his cedar-and-herb soap, and whatever crisp aftershave he’d put on now that he was beardless. Nothing heavy—just the lightest touch of something manly and sharp. All of a sudden, longing split her like lightning, and she wanted nothing more than to hold him, to press her face to the crook of his neck. She had to physically restrain herself as she said, “I won’t.”

He smiled, but his worry remained in his eyes. “All right. Lunch?”

“Yes. Lunch.”

Once in the kitchen, they found the oven and stovetop taken up with preparations for Gamling’s party later. Flitting back and forth between the two was a large, familiar Māori man.

“Hama!” Éowyn cried, rushing forward. 

He turned and grinned, pushing gray-streaked dark hair out of his face. “Éowyn!” He clasped her in a one-armed hug that took her back to being a child again. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a last minute thing,” she said, stepping back.

Hama glanced behind her, studying Faramir with intrigue. “And who have you brought us?”

“This is my friend Faramir.”

Faramir stepped forward, holding out a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you. Hama, is it?”

Hama shook his hand heartily. “Éomer’s property manager. Though I’m working double duty today as the chef.” He waved around the kitchen. “How do you know our Éowyn?”

Faramir hesitated. Éowyn began to wonder if he had it in him to lie. After a while he said, “Queenstown.”

“I see.” Hama’s eyebrows rose. “So you’re trying to steal her from us?”

Éowyn’s stomach clenched. “It’s—it’s not like that, Hama. We’re just friends.” She felt her face heat up in the already-warm kitchen.

Hama’s dark eyes narrowed. But he said, “Hmph. All right, then, girl. Here for something to eat?”

She could tell he hadn’t bought her story for a second. After all, she’d never brought a man home like this before. Her pulse pounded in her ears. “Yes, please.”

“Help yourself. It’ll have to be sandwiches.” He waved at the breadbox beside the sink. “Things are a bit crazy in here.”

“Can we help?” Faramir asked.

“No, Pākehā, but I appreciate the offer.” Hama grinned to show his nickname was meant in endearment. Then, quickly, his face flashed across the kitchen. “Oi! You! What do you think you’re doing?”

Merry froze, his hand halfway to a pot on the stove. “Um. Testing?”

“Not with those little unwashed fingers you aren’t. Step away.”

Éowyn bit back her laughter as Hama went to fend Merry off. She turned to Faramir, glad of the momentary reprieve. “Sandwiches okay?”

“What’ve you got?”

“Chicken salad or cheese, I expect.” Éowyn checked the fridge. “Yep.”

“Cheese it is, then.”

Faramir stood by her side as they worked, buttering the bread and slicing up the cheese. When the sandwiches were ready, Éowyn shoved them all on a plate and grabbed a thermos full of tea. “Want to eat in the fort?” she asked.

“Sure.” He smiled, and her breath stopped in her throat. Did he have to be so handsome when he did that? She loved how his eyes wrinkled up at the corners, full of laughter behind their gray depths.

By the time they reached the fort, activity was picking up across the farm. Familiar faces rushed in and out of the old barn, the empty one, and Éowyn saw decorations and tables being lugged inside. She suppressed a spike of nerves at the thought. She should be over there helping . . . but she wasn’t quite sure she was up to the task. So much small talk, so many reminders of how long she’d been away . . .

Faramir held open the door for her again. “I’m starving,” he said, and she smiled, brought back to the safety and seclusion of the small hut. This place meant security to her. It spoke of hiding out during rainy weather and losing herself in books after her parents died. She let out a breath as the door shut behind them. She was home.

“Okay?” Faramir asked, taking the plate and the thermos from her hands. He studied her face closely, too closely, and she felt herself flushing again.

“Not really,” she admitted, because it was plain to see that her lies didn’t work on him. “But I’m better now.”

“Hama seems like a nice bloke.”

“He’s the best.” Éowyn kicked off her muddy boots by the door and sat down on the bed. Faramir followed suit, sitting just far enough away that their bodies didn’t touch. She suppressed a flash of disappointment.

“Sandwich for the lady.” He offered her the plate. She took her time selecting one, partially to make him grin, and then unscrewed the thermos.

“Shit,” she said. “I forgot mugs.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “I don’t need any tea.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she began, and then remembered something. “Wait!” She set the thermos on the floor, jumping up and crossing to the bookshelf on the far wall. Sure enough, on a lower shelf, she found a small, ceramic mug, rather lumpy and ill-formed, but still usable. “I have a solution.” She held it up for Faramir to see.

His smile grew. “Did you make that?” he asked.

She nodded, coming back to sit beside him. She misjudged, and her leg bumped his, but she couldn’t bring herself to pull away. His body was warm in the cool air of the unheated fort. “When I was a girl. It was a fleeting attempt to be artistic.”

"You keep saying that,” he said, “but you’re only convincing me of your untapped potential.”

She shook her head. “No way. I could never sit still long enough.” She blew some dust from the bottom of the mug before filling it. At the look on Faramir’s face, she said, “Don’t worry. I’ll drink from this one.”

His skepticism dissolved into amusement, and he reached out a hand. “No. It’s all right. I want to test your product.”

She handed him the mug, and he blew on the steaming tea carefully before taking a sip. There was something about him, each movement precise and studied, that made her lose her mind. Watching him drink tea was no different. He swallowed, and her throat constricted. Then he said, “It’s good.”

“Thanks. But I can’t take credit for the tea.” She poured some into the thermos lid for herself and took a sip. He was right—it _was _good. Needed a bit of milk, but it was fine enough without. Just one sip was enough to take her back to those cold days hiding out in here.

He watched her face. “What’s bothering you?” he asked, his voice quiet. “If you want to share.”

She set down the thermos and tea, pondering her answer. She couldn’t exactly say, _I’m worried you might be talking to my ex. _And Aragorn didn’t even count as an ex. After a while she settled on, “It’s just a lot. Being back.” That wasn’t a lie.

“Yeah.” He brushed a hand on her arm before pulling back hastily and selecting a sandwich instead. “Sorry.”

She couldn’t tell if his apology was for her mood or the touch. She hated this, this awkwardness between them. _But it’s exactly what you asked for, _she reminded herself. “Thanks.”

They ate silently. After a while she built up the courage to say, “But it’s really nice. Having you here. I’ve never . . .” She hesitated. “I’ve never brought anyone home before.”

He paused mid-chew, his eyes flaring with something like triumph. It was quickly suppressed, so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it there. He swallowed and said, “I’m honored.”

“It’s silly. But I always felt that this place . . . couldn’t be easily shared.”

She must’ve said something wrong, because a shadow crossed his face. He took a sip of tea, setting her mug down on the floor before he spoke again. “But you seem so happy here.”

“Do I?”

“I could see it on your face when you got out of the jeep.”

“It’s true.” She smiled. “I do love this place. But there’s parts of it . . .” She hesitated. Cleared her throat. “I haven’t told you everything.”

He waited. His face was open, encouraging, but he didn’t prod. She gathered her courage, feeling suddenly very sure that he needed to hear this, and she needed to say it. Something she hadn’t told anyone about, not even Éomer. Not all of it.

“I never told you how my uncle died,” she said.

Faramir set his half-eaten sandwich down on the plate. “No. You didn’t.”

“It was a car accident,” she said. “Hit by a drunk driver. I was—I was driving. He was in the passenger seat.” Her voice broke.

“Oh, Éowyn.” Faramir moved the plate out of the way, pushing it behind them so he could sit closer to her. He put a tentative arm over her shoulders. “That’s terrible. But it’s not your fault.”

“I tried to move in front of him,” she said. “He wasn’t—he wasn’t wearing his seat belt.” She shook her head, remembering her uncle’s stubborn carelessness, his masculine certainty of his own survival. “That’s why . . .” She lifted up her left arm. “I broke my arm. Compound fracture. The bone pierced my skin . . .”

Faramir flinched, his arm tightening over her shoulders. “Jesus.”

She made herself keep talking. She wasn’t sure why, but this felt important. “And when I came to, he was still alive.”

“Your uncle?”

She nodded. She tasted salt on her tongue. “His back was broken. He couldn’t move. But he—he recognized me.” She nearly choked on the words. “He died before the paramedics got there. Merry came across us, actually, and he—he called.”

“God. Éowyn, I’m so sorry.” Faramir’s hand rubbed her back in small, steady circles, his touch gentle and warm. She leaned her head against his shoulder, taking breaths in and out, in and out. The warmth of him encircled her, dissolving her trembling until she was steady again. Like in her kitchen back in Queenstown, when she was with him, she didn’t feel as if she were drifting away.

After a while, she sat up, turning so she could read his face. His arm drifted free from her shoulders, but his fingers caught up a bit of her hair, twining around it. That small connection felt comfortable to her, safe, and she gave him a watery smile. “I’ve never told anyone all of that before.”

“Thank you for telling me.” He dropped her hair, meeting her gaze. “No one should have to carry that burden on their own.”

She shifted uneasily. “I just didn’t want Éomer to know the truth of it. Lying in the wreckage with—with the body . . .” She shivered. “I told him I’d passed out.”

Faramir took her hand in his. “I’m sorry for what you went through.” He hesitated. “But . . . you know it’s not your fault, right?”

“I struggle with that sometimes. It’s why I don’t drive—not anymore.” She squeezed his hand. “But thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He was so serious, so calm, yet there was a sadness in those gray eyes. Sadness for her. He opened his mouth to say more, but shut it again. A silence fell, and this one felt different from the others. Something deep was between them now.

Awareness began to return to Éowyn, slowly at first, then all at once in a rush of heat. She noticed all the places where Faramir’s body touched hers: his thigh against her knee; his hand brushing the back of hers. Her breathing picked up without her permission, and the smell of him filled her nostrils. His lips were close, a mere hand’s breadth away.

Without thinking, she closed the distance.

It was a chaste, gentle kiss, lips to lips. She just wanted _him, _the warmth and closeness of him, after he’d anchored her so completely. She wanted to wrap herself in his arms and anchor him right back.

For half an instant, he kissed her back with such tenderness her heart ached. But then he pulled away, leaving her leaning in his space. 

He was apologetic as he leaned away. “I’m sorry, Éowyn, but—I can’t. I promised.”

_Éowyn, you idiot, _she thought. “Don’t apologize. It’s my fault. God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s okay.” He moved further away and pulled the sandwiches back between them, but his nostrils flared with quick intakes of breath. He seemed shaken. “It’s fine.”

It didn’t feel fine. Éowyn’s palms turned clammy as the tender moment slipped away, drowning in their awkwardness. How could she have done that? What would he think? That she’d used him as her emotional dumping ground—and then abused his friendship? She picked up her half-eaten sandwich, but it tasted like ashes in her mouth.

When they were finished eating, Éowyn busied herself with gathering the empty thermos and the used mug, keeping her eyes on the floor.

“Éowyn—”

“Forget it happened,” she said, hurriedly, already backing toward the door. “Look, I should get ready for the party anyway. I need to shower, and—” _stop talking about showering _“—and change.” _Not better. _“I’ll see you in a couple of hours, yeah?” She risked a glance at his face.

His jaw worked, frustration clear in his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. But after a moment he said, “A couple of hours. Right.”

Éowyn fled.

#

She waited until the farmhouse was empty, ignoring Éomer’s brief knock at her door and call of “Éowyn? You coming?” She waited until she could hear faint music drifting through the thin panes of her bedroom windows. The sun sank low, twilight covering the grounds, and still she waited. At last, the moon began to rise, casting everything in a silver shroud, and Éowyn crept down the stairs.

She caught sight of her own face in the mirror on the landing. She looked pale, too pale—perhaps she’d forgotten blush. The rest of her makeup made her a stranger to herself. Dark mascara, a quick swipe of pale pink lips—perhaps she’d gone too far. Her hair she’d pinned up behind her head, out of the way. And her deep green dress was an old one. But she hadn’t worn it since before the accident, because it exposed her arms. Yet tonight, she was breaking it out again.

She might’ve cocked everything up with Faramir, but their conversation before that had made her brave. _It’s not your fault. _She shouldn’t hide away her scars any longer. She was proud of anything that showed how much she loved.

The grass was already dewy, a slight autumn mist rolling off Éowyn’s path. She shivered. A sweater probably would’ve been a practical choice. But then she stepped into the barn, and the party flooded her with warmth and atmosphere and _life. _

Someone had hung fairy lights all over the place. Bales of hay lined the walls, providing seating and a familiar animal scent that dropped away years from Éowyn’s life. She was a child again, sneaking into the empty barn to play pretend. But the party music playing from a set of nearby speakers jarred her. Warm bodies filled the room, dancing in the center and milling about on the edges, everyone talking at once.

From over near the edge of the room, Merry waved to her, already digging into Hama’s cooking. Behind him, a few girls from the nearby village chatted in a corner, familiar faces from Éowyn’s younger days. She saw Gamling laughing with his family near the dance floor, perhaps being persuaded to join, and she smiled to herself. They were _happy. _

Then she noticed Faramir.

She felt a flash of guilt. She’d abandoned him to these strangers for the last few hours. Yet that faded behind an unfamiliar swelling in her chest, so tight it was almost painful. He wore a crisp suit of dark gray over a starched white shirt, no tie. His hair barely brushed his shoulders, but he’d done something with it—some kind of gel, maybe, to control the waves. He held a glass of wine in his calloused fingers, and he looked somehow perfectly at ease, even though he stood in a mass of strangers. His shoulders were relaxed. And he stood talking to—

Éowyn’s stomach clenched. _Her brother. _

She began to weave through the crowd, heart pounding in her ears. What were they saying? How could Faramir look so calm? As she squeezed between two vaguely familiar faces—each of which stopped her to say hello—she caught a glimpse of Faramir grinning. _Grinning? _

The ache in her chest grew stronger.

After far too long, and many side conversations, she finally reached the other edge of the barn. But Faramir and Éomer hadn’t noticed her yet. And though she wasn’t exactly proud of herself for doing so, she slowed her steps to hear their conversation.

“—said it’s your first attempt?” Faramir asked.

“Yes. Gamling’s the one behind it. He said we might be able to go on the market in a few years.”

“He’s right. You’ve got something here.” Faramir held the wine to his nose, then took a sip, savoring it. “I’m impressed.”

Éomer looked shockingly—embarrassed? Shy? Éowyn had never seen that particular expression on her brother’s face. “Cheers.”

“Look, would you like to come visit the vines sometime? I’m sure I could arrange something. You, Gamling, anyone you like.”

“Are you serious?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Éomer held out a wide palm, shaking Faramir’s hand vigorously. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Faramir smiled into his glass as he took another sip.

What had she just witnessed? Éowyn steadied her breath. She’d had no idea that Faramir came from a winemaking family, much less that Éomer was interested in learning how. Yet there was something special in the idea of her brother and Faramir getting along, sharing interests. Something she was almost too frightened to name.

She cleared her throat, catching up to them at last.

Faramir turned, his smile still on his face. His expression froze in a look of shock. He blinked at her. “Éowyn. Hi.”

“Hi.” She flushed, her right hand instinctively crossing over to block the scars on her left forearm. His eyes followed the movement, and his face softened.

“Don’t. You look . . .” He paused, as if lost for words. “You look amazing.”

“Thanks. You clean up all right yourself.” She meant it. Up close, he looked like he’d stepped from an advert for expensive watches. _Not that she should notice._

When she turned to Éomer, he wore a skeptical expression. She knew him well enough to read it. _That’s not your friend and you know it. _“Hi, Éomer,” she said. “Great party.”

“Cheers. Fancy a taste of our first vintage?”

"Sure.” He poured her a glass from a nearby bottle. It was pale gold, the color of early morning sunlight. She sniffed it before taking a sip. Crisp, dry, refreshing. She tasted citrus and buttery silk. “It’s good.” Her cheeks grew hotter when she remembered she was in the presence of an experienced winemaker. “I like wine, but I’m afraid I’m no expert,” she told Faramir.

“You’ll have to come up to the vineyards, too, then. I was just promising your brother a tour.”

“I’d love that,” she said, feeling a profound relief. _So he’s not going to push me away. _

“Éowyn,” said Éomer through a forced smile. “Could I talk to you for a moment?” Éowyn found herself being dragged over into a corner behind one of the speakers. Éomer watched her over crossed arms.

“What?” she asked.

“Seriously? Your boss?”

“What?” Éowyn glanced frantically over at Faramir, who was watching them with a mild expression, too far away to overhear.

“He didn’t tell me. Merry did.”

Éowyn’s gaze narrowed as she sought her former flatmate in the crowd. “That little—”

“Under severe pressure,” Éomer conceded. “Don’t hold it against him. Look.” Éomer touched her lightly, drawing her gaze back to his face. “He seems like a great bloke, Éowyn. But I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Is that so?” Éomer’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, you might want to tell him that.”

Éowyn’s pulse pounded, and she took a fortifying sip of the wine. “You don’t know him.”

“I told you, I’d like to. He seems . . . nice. Really nice.” Éomer’s head tilted as he studied her, and she took another sip of wine. Her brother saw far too much. But he surprised her by saying, “You deserve to be happy, Éowyn.”

She blinked at him. “So do you.”

“Yeah, but—that’s not what we’re talking about.” He smiled but sobered quickly. “Just don’t let something good slip by because you think you don’t deserve it.”

Her fingers tightened on the wine. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Exactly what I said.” He moved before she could react, catching her in a quick hug. “It’s good to see you.” He pulled back. “And Faramir’s right. You look good.”

_You look good_ was about the highest compliment Éomer had ever paid her. “Not bad yourself,” she said, noticing how he wore his long hair brushed out and his “nice” jeans.

He chuckled. “I’m not going on the cover of any magazines.”

“Just going home with one of your fangirls from the village?”

He grinned wolfishly, already heading away toward the dance floor. “Maybe.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes. Her brother was such a hypocrite. But she didn’t want to remind him of his previous thoughts on one night stands at that particular moment. She started back toward Faramir instead, her chest warm.

“Everything good?” Faramir asked when she returned to his side.

“Yeah,” she said, somewhat surprised to find that she meant it. She turned to see Éomer grabbing someone’s hand on the dancefloor, dragging them out beside him. “It is.”

#

As the party wore on, Faramir and Éowyn drank the rest of Éomer’s wine, then drifted over to the food table, filling their plates with Hama’s delicious fare. Merry caught up with then, another full plate of his own in his hands, and despite his transgression, the three of them had a nice conversation as they ate. Faramir surprised her, coming out of his quiet shell to make steady conversation with everyone who came up to them, old faces and new.

He was deep in conversation with one of the oldest farmhands from her uncle’s time when a hand gripped her shoulder.

“Éowyn. Is that really you?”

She glanced up to find Gamling smiling down at her.

“Gamling. Happy birthday!” She jumped up, clasping him in a tight hug.

“Thank you, my dear.” He clutched her hand and gave it a squeeze as she sat back down. Then he seated himself on the bale of hay beside her. “This is enough to make my want to retire now. I’m perfectly content.”

“But we need you! You still have years left.”

“I know.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry. I’m just getting going.”

She thought of the winemaking scheme and smiled. “Good.”

“And what about you? Are you happy?”

What a difficult question. For the last four months, happiness hadn’t been something she thought she’d feel again. Her unrequited—whatever it was—for Aragorn had been the closest thing to that. But as she pondered Gamling’s question, she realized with a startled sort of disbelief that she _was _happy. She glanced over at Faramir without meaning to, and caught him watching her, the old farmer still talking at his ear. She smiled. “I think I am.”

Faramir smiled back, though there was no way he could hear her.

“Aye, and for good reason,” said Gamling from beside her. “He seems like a good lad.” 

Éowyn turned, startled. “Oh. It’s not—he’s just my friend.”

Gamling studied her. His disbelief was plain. A hint of amusement played about his familiar features. Then he leaned forward and said, “Éowyn, my dear, from the way you two look at one another, I don’t think you’re ‘just’ anything.”

Her mouth went dry. _But we have to be, _she thought. She wanted to make a new life for herself. Didn’t she? And what if she built it around Faramir, in a place where she knew no one else, and that didn’t last? She’d have to leave _again, _start over _again, _and this time, she wasn’t sure if she’d ever come out of the rubble.

Watching her expression, Gamling reached out and squeezed her hand. “Take my advice, girl. Don’t let fear stop you from doing the things you love.” He waved around the barn. “Where would I be if I’d done that?”

She smiled sadly. Good advice, but easier to give than to do.

But before she could argue, he stood, pulling her upright after him. “Now. How about a dance?”

#

Five songs and many other partners later, Éowyn’s feet were getting tired. Sweat slid down the back of her neck, and another vaguely familiar farmhand was grabbing for her, twirling her so fast the room became a blur. She’d laughed so hard her side ached, and Éomer was _still _doing that weird dance move beside her, but she was starting to think she needed a break.

Her gaze found Faramir a moment later, standing by himself on the edge of the room. He was watching her, she noticed with some surprise. He half smiled when she caught his gaze, and an idea came to her with such relief attached that she didn’t even think.

She lifted her free hand and rubbed her temple.

He jumped to alertness, shifting his head, a question on his face. She rubbed her temple again. And then he was setting down his drink, pushing through the crowd toward her.

“Sorry,” he said when he reached them. “May I cut in?”

The farmhand recognized defeat when he saw it. “Yeah, all right,” he said, a bit of disappointment in his voice, but judging by the group of young women in the corner, he’d have no trouble finding another partner.

“Thanks,” Éowyn said as bodies moved around them, shoving her closer to Faramir. “I just needed a break.”

“That’s what the signal’s for,” he said, starting to lead her off the dance floor.

Just then, the song ended, shifting into slow, melodic piano. Couples froze, then took new positions, sliding arms over shoulders and moving to the new rhythm. The barn took on a hushed quiet, and for an instant, all Éowyn heard was buzzing in her ears.

She forgot her tiredness. Quite the opposite—her body awoke to his presence, ringing with awareness. All thoughts of following her own rules fled. She heard herself say, “Would you like to—?”

But he was already stepping closer. “Yes.”

One arm slid around her waist, curling into the curve of her back. The other took her left hand and lifted it, tangling their fingers. She slid her free hand up his chest to his shoulder, where her fingers just brushed the ends of his hair. Their bodies were a few inches apart, but just being held like this was enough to heat Éowyn’s skin. Then they began to move.

She’d never been very good at dancing. It was too hard for her to surrender herself completely, to let herself be led. She always wanted to lead instead, to dance the man’s part, and so she’d given up early on at any form of traditional dance. But this—this was different. They didn’t follow steps, not to perfection. They simply swayed, Faramir guiding them in gentle circles, and for the first time, Éowyn relaxed. She let herself be guided in his arms.

And he listened to her in turn, never moving too suddenly, always careful not to step on her feet. _Always careful_. That was who he was, wasn’t it? Éowyn let out a breath and closed her eyes, drowning out the barn, the music, everything, until her senses narrowed to the smell of him and the warmth of his hands against her.

She leaned her head forward, nuzzling closer.

There might’ve been a low rumble in his chest, but it didn’t become a protest. He rested his cheek against her hair, his hand on her back pulling her closer. She felt as if she were slipping into a warm bath, all her muscles relaxing at once, and she could almost have fallen asleep right there. If not for the tingling on her skin, like static electricity.

When the music finally ended, it took a few seconds for Éowyn to surface. She pulled back, blinking, the lights too bright all of a sudden.

Faramir watched her somberly, lowering his hands.

She opened her mouth to say something—to fill the sudden silence—but nothing came. She saw the same longing in his eyes that she felt in her soul. And none of the consequences seemed to matter. Not what happened tomorrow.

What felt important was right now.

The next song started, another fast one, and it was so loud that Éowyn jumped. The spell momentarily broken, she followed Faramir off the dance floor, where he offered to get her another drink. She found herself nodding and took a seat on the nearest hay bale to gather herself. What had she been about to do?

While she was sitting, a group of older women from the village came up to her, reminiscing on the days when she was a little girl. By the time Faramir returned, he could only hand Éowyn her bottle of ginger beer, which she took with a grateful smile. She turned back to the women, trying not to let her frustration show on her face. They meant well, after all.

The evening wore on, and soon, the barn began to empty. Red-faced partygoers were driven home by their sober companions. The stragglers sang Gamling out the door as he grinned the whole time, thanking anyone within two feet of him. Merry ate the last tidbits of Hama’s food, much to Hama’s approval.

Then, at long last, it was over.

“We’ll have to do it for Hama next,” said Éomer, coming up beside Éowyn, who was taking down some streamers from the barn door.

“It was a good party,” she said.

He turned to her. “I’m glad you were here.” He hesitated. “It almost felt like . . . like Théoden was in the room with us.”

“And Théodred.”

Éomer nodded. He clasped her in another brief hug, in a way that said he understood perfectly the grief that went through her at the names. Grief, but also happiness, that they were a part of her. A part of this place.

Faramir came up behind them. “Can I help?” he asked quietly.

Éomer shook his head, clearing his throat. “No. Please, sleep. You’re a guest. You too, Éowyn. You look tired.”

Éowyn glanced sharply at her brother. Was he calling her a guest at her own house? But then he smiled, and he flicked his head at the door. “Go! Both of you. You’ve earned it.” And as Faramir thanked him for the party, Éomer shot Éowyn a wink.

She flushed. Was he giving her _his blessing? _After scolding her earlier?

Brothers could be very confusing sometimes.

When she and Faramir got outside into the cool night air, she was glad of the darkness, if it meant he couldn’t read her blush. “I hope old Elfhelm didn’t talk your ear off too long.”

“Just long enough. He had some great stories.” Faramir stopped at the place where the path split, one part going to the fort, another going to the farmhouse. “Thank you for inviting me, Éowyn. I had a great time.”

“Thank you for coming.” The words fell flat. They weren’t enough for what she wanted to tell him. _Thank you for making me feel whole again. _But the real words wouldn’t come. Her throat tightened. “Faramir . . .”

“I should go to bed.” He sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair again. She was beginning to recognize that as his nervous tic. “Goodnight, Éowyn.” And he turned briskly on his heel, leaving her alone in the dark.

#

Éowyn sat on her bed so long that she heard Éomer come in and climb up the stairs. The water ran in the bathroom for a while, and then his footsteps passed her door on their way to his room. A few creaking floorboards later, and the house fell silent.

Everyone was asleep.

Everyone but Éowyn, who hadn’t even changed out of her party dress. She sat with her hands tucked under her legs, shivering a little in the cooler night air, but unable to move. She was arguing with herself.

She could put on her pajamas and go to sleep, like a logical person would do. She could forget the way Faramir held her while they danced. She could be grateful that she’d found such an important person in her new life in Queenstown. And she could focus on her job instead.

Or she could sneak down the stairs, across the grass, and into the fort, and damn the consequences.

At last, in the darkness, she made up her mind. She couldn’t fight this. It was too strong. And if everything crumbled apart later, so be it. She would suffer then.

For now, she would take Gamling’s advice, and live.

The last step on the staircase squeaked beneath her foot, and she froze. But there was no other sound in the house. A moment later, Éowyn slipped outside, her bare feet getting wet as she hurried across the grass. Yet again, she should have brought a sweater. But she was too jumpy with nerves to feel the cold.

The fort was dark inside. Faramir was probably long asleep. At the door, she hesitated. He’d want to be left alone. Right? He made a promise to her, one that she kept trying to make him break.

But then she heard his voice, quiet and questioning from the other side of the door. “Is someone there?”

She took a deep breath and stepped inside. “It’s me.”

He sat up on the mattress, his face a pale blur in the dark. “Éowyn?”

“Yes. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“No, I—I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Me neither.” Obviously. She pressed the door closed behind her and stepped forward into the dark room, feeling her way with her feet, though she knew the place by heart. Her eyes didn’t leave his face. “I’ve been sitting on my bed for the last hour, hardly able to move.”

He let out a breath. “Éowyn—”

“And I know what you’re going to say. I know I made you promise. But—screw the promise. I release you. Okay? I should never have made you promise in the first place. I can’t take this anymore.” Her shins hit the mattress, and she sank to her knees at the foot of the bed.

He didn’t move, but his hands fisted the blankets at his waist. “What are you saying?”

“I want to be with you.” She hesitated, a sudden insecurity creeping into her thoughts. “Do you want to be with me?”

He ran a hand over his face. “Jesus, Éowyn. You have to ask?”

“Yes,” she said, stubbornly. Then: “It’s okay if you don’t.”

He pushed aside the blankets and crawled toward her, stopping when he reached her side. “Of course I want to be with you. I can’t stay away. I think about you all the time. I haven’t stopped since—since Wellington. Since the moment I saw your face.”

Her heart soared. She leaned toward him.

“But.” He held up a hand, his voice tight. “I also want you to be happy. And I’m your boss.”

“I don’t care about that anymore.”

“Yes, you do. You love your work. I saw it.” His hand hovered between them, palm out, keeping her away. His voice was low when he said, “I’m not going to be responsible for ruining that for you.”

“Then we’ll keep it a secret.”

His eyes narrowed, two flashes of moonlight in the dark. “What do you mean?”

“We can . . . keep it between us.” Her heart pounded. “For now. Just for a while. To see if . . . if it works. No one else has to know.”

“Why do you say it like that? ‘If it works.’ You don’t think it’s going to work?”

Was that a drop of vulnerability in his voice, a pinch of hurt? She hesitated, trying to phrase her response carefully. “I don’t exactly have the best track record,” she said at last. “I have a history of screwing things up.”

His hand fell to the blankets, landing atop hers. The way he tangled their fingers gave her a prick of hope. “Who cares about before?” he said. “I’m talking about us. You and me. When I’m with you, I feel . . .”

She sucked in her breath, straining with every atom of her body to hear what he said next.

“I’ve never felt like this before. I don’t want to screw it up, either, but . . . I think I’d regret it more if I didn’t try.”

She fought a sense of unfair disappointment. _He never really finished the sentence. _But she could hardly blame him for holding back—not when she felt on the brink of a precipice herself. Afraid to fall. “I feel the same way,” she admitted. “So . . . let’s try.”

His fingers stilled in her grasp. “If there was a way for me to leave the clinic—”

She pulled back her hand. “What? You can’t quit.”

“You wouldn’t want me to?”

“Definitely not. Not for me. That’s asking too much of you.” Her heartbeat danced a panicked rhythm in her chest.

“Then how do you see this going, Éowyn? What does a successful future look like for you?” Now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she could read his expression clearly. And it broke her heart. “Because I know what it looks like for me. And it doesn’t involve lying about my partner.”

_My partner. _A triumphant wave of possessiveness rose unbidden at the words. _My partner. _Just hearing him say it made a shiver slide along her skin. She swallowed. “I don’t know,” she said.

His face shuttered. “You don’t know.”

“I don’t know yet,” she clarified, trying to get him to understand. She felt the moment fading and grasped for it with all her strength. “It’s not that I can’t imagine it. I can—I do. But I don’t want you to leave your job for me. Not yet.” She reached for his hand again and took heart when he didn’t resist her touch. “Can’t we just . . . try it out? For a while?”

His hand tightened around hers, clinging with the same desperation she felt. She heard his breathing in the still air, heavy, like her own. After a painfully long few seconds, he muttered, “Please don’t make me regret this.”

And he tugged her forward and kissed her.

It was clumsy at first, her lips not quite meeting his, but she caught herself with her hands on his chest, adjusting. Then he was kissing her deeply, hungrily, as if to devour her, and she consumed him right back. The taste of his toothpaste skirted her tongue as they clung to one another. His body was warm in the cold air.

His hands landed on her shoulders before flinching back. “Jesus. You’re freezing.”

“Am I?” she asked, dazedly, as she kissed her way along his cheek. She liked the way his aftershave filled her nostrils, and the slight scrape of his beard growing back in.

“Yes.” His hands rubbed up and down her arms. “Stand up.”

She moaned a protest, kissing him under his ear, and he shivered in response. But then he said, more firmly, “Come on. Up.”

She stood.

He stood more slowly, his hands loosely clasping her wrists, and he stepped back to admire her. “You really are beautiful,” he said. “That dress . . .”

She grew warmer under his gaze. “Thanks.”

He leaned forward and stole a quick kiss. “But it has to come off.” He slipped around behind her, his hands brushing aside the hair that had come unpinned. “Shall I?” His words were a low whisper, brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck.

She could only nod.

His warm fingers brushed lightly down the back of her spine until they found her zipper. She shivered at the contact, and not because she was cold. He began to unzip her, pressing kisses down her spine as he went. Slowly, slowly. Each new brush of lips against her exposed skin stoked the heat gathering between her legs.

As he reached her lower back, he knelt, kissing the dimples right above the waistline of her knickers. Black lace. He kissed her again, as if in approval. Then he reached up to her waist and spun her around.

“Take it off for me?” he said, looking up at her, and she felt a tremor go through her core. She reached up and slipped the straps of her dress off her shoulders before letting the silky fabric slide down her arms and to the floor.

His eyes sparked with heat as she stood before him, breasts bared. She hadn’t worn a bra. She felt a sudden urge to cover herself, but at the same time, she reveled in the appreciation in his eyes. Like she was utterly in power over him. It gave her a thrill unlike any she had ever known. So she fought her insecurities, keeping her arms at her side, and let him look.

After a moment, he leaned forward, kissing her stomach, right below her belly button. It was almost tender, not quite like the seductive kisses he’d trailed down her spine. That particular spot was one she would normally be self-conscious of. But the brush of his lips was so sweet, she couldn’t pull away.

Then he began to kiss his way lower. She stopped him, her fingers tangling in his hair. “Faramir—”

He tilted his head at her. “No. You’re right. Under the covers is better.” And then, before she could move, he wrapped his arms below her bum and _lifted _her, tossing her before him on the mattress. She squeaked in surprise, and he chuckled, crawling up after her. “Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t resist.”

She slithered down to meet him, pulling the blankets up to cover them both. “I forgive you,” she said. “It’s nice in here.”

“See? Warm.”

She scooted closer to him, and he obligingly lifted an arm and pulled her to his chest. Her taut nipples rubbed against his t-shirt as she pressed closer, sending peaks of pleasure to the heat between her legs. The smell and warmth of him was everywhere, and she closed her eyes, burrowing in.

Then she felt him move away, his hardness brushing her thigh through his boxer-briefs. “What are you doing?” she asked, wondering why he was gone.

“Exploring.” He pressed her onto her back, ducking beneath the covers. She opened her mouth to complain, but then his lips closed over her nipple, and she let out a gasp instead. He sucked, swirled, flicked, and she lifted closer to his mouth, wanting more. Her knickers grew damp.

He moved to her other breast.

Before he could start, she gripped his t-shirt by the shoulders and yanked it up, dragging it over his head. He lifted his arms so she could pull it free and toss it across the room. When he lowered himself over her again, she felt the tickle of his chest hair against her stomach, the warmth of skin pressed to skin. _Delicious. _Then his mouth was on her, and she could hardly think.

After a while, his kisses drifted lower, leaving her nipples wet and peaked in the air. His hair slipped over her skin as he disappeared farther beneath the blankets—which she wasn’t sure she needed anymore, at the rate he was heating her skin.

Finally he’d positioned himself between her legs, and she braced herself for his return. But it didn’t come. Instead, he shifted, lifting her thigh so it draped over his right shoulder. And then he pressed kisses up the inside of her leg.

She twitched as if she were being electrocuted. The skin was so sensitive that it was all she could do not to make a sound. Her pulse throbbed in her head as well as in her core, slickness reaching the top of her thighs.

His lips reached higher and higher, and she flinched away. “Faramir—”

He stopped, catching her gaze in an instant. “Yes?”

“I don’t—that is, you don’t have to—”

“I know. But I want to. Is that all right?” His hand skimmed up and down the outside of her leg, holding it open, exposing the most sensitive part of her. She was glad of the layer her knickers provided. But she had trouble understanding his words.

“You _want _to?”

“Éowyn . . .” He hesitated. “Has anyone ever done this for you before?”

She squirmed, but found herself pinned by his gaze. “Not exactly.” _Not _wanting_ to. Perhaps as a chore . . ._

Something flared in his eyes, something possessive and molten and fierce, and his hand stilled. “May I?”

It was the look in his eyes, combined with the earnestness of his question, that undid her. “If you want to . . .”

“Trust me.” There was that spark again. “I want to.”

At her bewildered nod, he ducked down again, kissing the inside of her thigh. When he reached the juncture of her leg and pelvis, the slick edge of her knickers, she squirmed again at the thought of it. But he kissed her there, chest rumbling with pleasure. And then his finger slipped in at the other side, running across her slick folds.

She trembled.

He kissed the outside of her knickers, right over her sex. Lightly at first, then hungrily, as if to devour her. The sensation there was so intense that her leg spasmed, but his other hand held her steady. Then, with a swift move, he reached up and dragged her knickers down.

She could only oblige him, feeling herself already melting into a pool of heat and desire. He dragged the wet lace down her leg before casting it onto the floor. In an instant, he returned, pulling the blankets up around her so she couldn’t see. She could only feel.

A slight stream of cool air as he blew across her. The shivering-light touch of his finger up and down her folds. And then the icy-burn sensation of his tongue against her clit.

She gasped in shock, bucking her hips. His tongue kept going, slowly at first and then with more rhythm, stoking up the fire. She felt some of the tension start to leave her, the embarrassment subsiding in the midst of the utter pleasure and warmth that was taking her over. Just as her body ached to be filled, he obliged her, slipping a finger inside. He crooked it a little and dragged it against her, in and out, pressing a sensitive spot inside her walls. She clenched around him. All the while, his tongue continued its gentle rhythm, and her body tensed in an entirely new way, wanting _more. _She spared a thought for the fact that she had never appreciated this before, and then she ceased to think rationally at all. She let her mind blank and gave herself over to the pleasure of his touch.

But he moved slowly, each thrust deliberate and controlled. She began to feel a steady build that sank away each time he carefully lowered his pace. He was _teasing _her. Finally she lifted her pelvis off the bed, pressing into him, and he laughed. She felt the vibration of his lips against her, a short, warm hum, and it steepled her pleasure even further. He was tormenting her. He was having _fun. _

And so was she.

She thought of a hundred ways to get her revenge, but they dissolved amidst a new rush of sensation as he thrust a second finger into her. The satisfying sense of fullness, the way he crooked his fingers again to rub down her walls, made her legs start to tremble, her body reaching with all its will toward its conclusion.

He was gentle yet firm, moving his tongue and his thrusts in rhythm, and Éowyn found her consciousness focusing on just that wet sensation. Everything else slipped away. The pleasure grew, steepling sharply, and she was _there. _It was all she could do to keep from crying out. Her leg was twitching again, but she hardly noticed. She knew only the brush of his tongue, the thrust of his fingers, the feel of him filling her. Faster now—deliberate—until—

She came with a slow agonizing intensity, and she _did _cry out, in the end, unable to hold it back. He rode her out, stopping only when she stilled.

Gently, he withdrew his hand and crawled up from the blankets. He wore a small curve on his lips, watching her guardedly. “How did I do?”

She was still recovering her ability to speak. Her legs trembled in the aftermath, her core almost numb. She felt like she had on the dance floor earlier, like she was sinking into a warm bath, only multiplied by a hundredfold. “That was . . . you did . . .”

He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. “All right, then?” He gathered her in his arms, pulling her to his chest.

She sighed. “Better than all right. I . . . liked it very much.”

“So did I.”

She twisted to catch his expression. “Did you really?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Because you don’t have to do it if you don’t—”

He muttered something she couldn’t catch. Then, louder, he said, “Éowyn. Listen to me. It’s safe to assume I will always want to do it. Okay?” He bent and kissed her forehead again. “But only on the condition that you want me to.”

“I want you to,” she said quickly, and he chuckled. She smiled back. Here, in the circle of his arms, beneath the warmth of the covers, she felt more content than perhaps she ever had in her entire life.

She twisted again, turning so she could feel the press of his hardness against her thigh. “Your turn,” she said.

He smiled, but he stopped her when she started to move. “No. It’s all right. We should sleep.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“I don’t have a condom,” he said apologetically. “And besides, I’m perfectly content.” He tugged her up to him again, pulling her close to his chest. His scent washed over her, surrounding her with warmth and security. “Just stay with me. That’s enough.” 

“But . . .” She was utterly bewildered. A man had never done something like that and then _gone to sleep _afterward. Well, it was becoming pretty clear that men hadn’t done a lot of things with her before. “But I could always . . .”

“It’s all right.” He sounded drowsy himself, his voice drifting away. “Seriously. I promise. That was . . . that was amazing.” He pressed her to him. “Just stay.”

So she did.

#

Éowyn woke early the next morning, as the first touches of sunlight drifted through the windows of the fort. She was warm and content, despite the cold air outside the blankets. Her feet brushed against someone else’s, her naked body tangling in a network of comfort and heat.

_Faramir. _

The events of the previous evening drifted back to her slowly, like snowflakes falling from the sky: dancing with him; sneaking in here; the look on his face when he asked, “May I?” All of a sudden, she was awake, her body alive with electricity and adrenaline.

She shifted to find his face a few inches from hers.

He looked much younger while asleep. His breath came deep and even. She lifted a hand and brushed away a wave of hair that had fallen across his face overnight. Something tender and dangerous in its enormity filled her chest.

She cared about him _so much._

His voice filled her mind. _What does a successful future look like for you? _

She tried to imagine it. At first, it came easily: herself, waking just like this, in his bed or hers, back in Queenstown. The way his eyes crinkled up as he kissed her good morning. The smell of instant coffee and bacon as they made breakfast. But then it became more complicated. Were they going to work at the same place? Did everyone . . . know? Or was he quitting his job for her? Or . . . was she quitting it for him? Or was there a way they kept their jobs, and their relationship, and it wasn't weird . . . it just . . . worked? 

Her skin began to overheat, and suddenly the blankets felt stifling. Sweat broke out on the back of her neck. _Out, _she thought. _I need to get out. _

As she de-tangled herself from Faramir’s limbs, she found herself hoping he might wake up, but he didn’t stir. She crossed to where her dress lay puddled on the floor and pulled it on, but he didn’t even wake at the sound of the zipper. When she bent over his forehead to plant a gentle kiss there, his eyes fluttered, but didn’t open.

She hesitated. She didn’t want to leave him with nothing, waking up to find her gone.

That’s when she noticed her old drawing peeling off the wall. It would have to do. She pulled it down, finding her old treasure-box and rooting out the pencil she knew would be inside. She hesitated, pencil poised on the back of the drawing. How could she put it into words?

_I had an amazing time _seemed crass, diminishing how special the night had been to her. _I had to sneak back to my own bed _was too cowardly.

Finally, she wrote, _Come find me when you wake up. xx Éowyn_

She placed the drawing, note-side up, next to him on the bed. He’d shifted, his arm falling over empty space now, and she felt a strong pull to climb back in with him and sleep until noon. But that wouldn’t be a very good start to keeping their secret.

Instead, she slipped across the dewy grass, back up the stairs, under the cold covers of her bed, where she stared at the ceiling until Éomer began making coffee in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Please don't be afraid to tell me what you think :)


	6. The Lark Ascending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! My apologies at the delay for this chapter. I want to thank everyone who commented and read and left kudos on this story in the waiting period. You all encouraged me to keep going, and I'm so grateful to you for that!! I hope you enjoy this bit.

From his pocket, Faramir’s phone chimed with the tone of a single bell. He smiled to himself as he pulled it out, turning away from Aragorn. “Just a second, mate.”

As expected, it was a text from Éowyn. His chest pinged with excitement to match the chime of a second text coming in. He would never get tired of hearing from her. _His partner. _

Well, secret partner. But still.

The first message was a photo of her in the southwest field at Legolas and Gimli’s, her cheek pressed close to the starred forehead of a filly. _Hello from both Éowyns, _said the second message, followed by a handful of xs. Faramir’s smile grew. The human Éowyn in the photo looked playfully happy, her waves escaping from their plait as they caught the light of the afternoon sun. A soft expression filled her gray eyes, something he had come to associate with her recent unguardedness. She was finally softening around him.

She was letting him in.

“Good news?” asked Aragorn as Faramir typed out his reply. _Can’t wait to see you tonight xx. _

“Oh.” Heat rose up the back of Faramir’s neck as he hit send before shoving the phone back in his pocket. “Just, um, my partner.” The words slipped out unbidden. But, he reasoned, they were safe with Aragorn. After all, the man hadn’t grown up around here on the South Island. Even if he knew about Éowyn—who would he tell?

“Ah, yes. The mysterious woman.” Aragorn grinned. “Must be going well.”

Faramir shrugged, but he couldn’t help the slow smile spreading over his face.

Aragorn chuckled. “That’s great, mate. I’m happy for you. She seems like a keeper.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, the look on your face, for one. But also the fact that I’ve never heard of you dating anyone before—much less getting serious.”

_Were _they getting serious? Faramir’s heart stuttered in his chest. Aragorn himself had gotten recently engaged, so perhaps the man’s good humor was simply catching. But, no, Faramir realized. It was more than that.

If he were really being honest, he was more serious about Éowyn than he’d ever been about anything else in his life.

But he kept that information close to his chest. He knew she wouldn’t be ready to hear it—not yet. She reminded him of the frightened cats he’d had to soothe and cajole on the veterinary table over the years. Only now was she starting to come out of her shadowed corner.

Distracting both himself and Aragorn from more conversation on this topic, Faramir said, “Shall we get started?”

Aragorn’s keen gaze showed that he didn’t miss a trick. But he allowed the subject change, merely nodding as he turned to face the vineyard that spread before them. “Yes. The vines.”

Faramir followed Aragorn’s gaze. As March bled into April, harvest was right around the corner, and the vines wove a glorious carpet of brilliant green. Faramir squinted to find the grapes like clusters of jewels among the careful rows. “Looks good,” he said, an understatement if there ever was one. Aragorn had done well since officially taking over ownership of the vineyards and adjoining land.

“Thanks,” said Aragorn, his smile small and modest. He wasn’t one to boast over his legal victory—though Faramir wouldn’t blame him if he did. The fact that Denethor had turned their feud into a long and expensive legal battle was more of an embarrassment to Faramir than anything, but Aragorn was too kind to linger over such things.

“Let’s start with the vines,” said Aragorn as they climbed into the front of the quad. “It might actually be for the best that the northern vineyards were allowed to go fallow. It’s freshened up the soil. We planted some pinot noir there last spring.”

Faramir shot Aragorn a look of surprise. “Ithilien has only ever produced white wines.”

“I know.” Aragorn returned the look with a confident smile. “It’s an experiment. Neighboring vineyards are seeing some success. And it’s a popular grape.”

That made sense. Faramir silenced the voice in his head that sounded like his father—the voice that didn’t trust, or like, change. Instead, he sat back as Aragorn drove them up and down the aisles of grapevines, listening closely to Aragorn’s ideas. And he had a lot of them.

Good ones.

Every so often, Faramir cut in with some suggestions of his own. Aragorn nodded, taking each of them seriously, earnestly. It was satisfying to be heard with such care and attention. Not that Faramir didn’t get that as a vet—he loved his clients. But this was different. Winemaking was something he’d always longed to cultivate, but his father had never really given him the chance.

_Those vineyards are dying. The money’s in the clinic. _

_Why would we trust our family heirloom to _you?

The words, spoken so many years ago, still hurt.

“Something wrong?” Aragorn asked, interrupting what had been a steady stream of conversation.

“No.” Faramir shook his head firmly. “Nothing. I like your ideas. These vineyards could use a bit of change.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Aragorn pulled the quad over to a vine bursting with grapes. “But not too much change. We’ll still make the white this place is famous for.” He pulled a few grapes from their stems, handing two over to Faramir. “Right?”

“Of course.” Faramir matched Aragorn’s smile before tasting the grapes. Sun-warmed and nearly ready to be harvested, they burst with sweetness on his tongue. But not too sweet. The winemaker would be sure of that. A hint of tartness from their delicate skins rounded out the bite.

Speaking of the winemaker—“When you say ‘we’ . . .?”

Aragorn’s gaze turned wary. “I’ve hired a new winemaker. His name’s Beregond. Ever heard of him?”

Faramir racked his brain. The named sounded familiar, but it had been a while since he’d paid close attention to the wine world. “Maybe. Can’t be sure.”

For the first time since their afternoon meeting began, Aragorn looked uncomfortable. “He used to work for your father,” he said.

_Right. _Of course. The name clattered back into Faramir’s brain, bringing sour memories along with it. A fight about the management of the vineyards. Well-meant suggestions taken in anger.

His father had fired Beregond, right after he’d fired Faramir himself.

"He’s a good man,” said Aragorn. “Trustworthy. Loyal. And he knows his wine. I think you’ll be happy to work with him.”

“Don’t worry,” said Faramir, hoping to put Aragorn at ease. _I’m not my father. _“I’m sure I will.”

Aragorn smiled broadly, and Faramir wondered what he had said to earn such open and easy satisfaction. “So you’ll do it?”

“Oh.” Faramir hadn’t exactly meant to give his answer now. Not without consulting Éowyn. After all, this would mean commuting out to Ithilien more often. Cutting way back on his hours at the clinic. He’d planned to do both for a while, but . . . he hoped that this might change her feelings about dating him.

Dating him in the open, rather.

“I . . . need a few days. To think it over. But I like the sound of it,” he added, seeing Aragorn’s face fall.

Aragorn recovered with a half-smile. “I understand. No decisions without the partner’s input, right? Good man.” He thumped Faramir on the shoulder. Then his gaze followed his hand, glancing at something behind Faramir’s back, and his smile turned full again. “Speaking of which . . .”

Faramir turned. A striking woman with long, dark hair and gray-blue eyes walked toward them, grinning. This could only be Arwen, Aragorn’s fiancée. She waved as she drew closer. “Hello.”

“Hi. Faramir Steward.” He held out a hand.

She shook. She had a cautious grip, gentle to match her demeanor. “Call me Arwen. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Aragorn pulled her close with a one-armed hug. “Good day?” 

She nodded, blushing a little as her fiancé kissed her lightly on the cheek. They were obviously relieved to see one another, and the joy that resonated from both of them gave Faramir a sharp pang.

Quite suddenly, he wanted to be with Éowyn. He wanted to be able to kiss her like that, to tug her to his side, to introduce her to people as _his partner. _

Well, he could do two out of the three.

“I should get going,” he said, as Aragorn helped Arwen up into the quad.

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I hope I didn’t cut you short. There’s space up here for all of us.”

“No, it’s all right. I’m—I’ve got plans tonight. I should get back.”

“He has a date,” Aragorn said through a smile.

“Oh!” Arwen said, in an entirely different tone from before. She smiled, too. “Well, then, don’t let us keep you.”

“Thanks.” He began to turn away.

“Faramir. Wait.” Aragorn climbed down again, hurrying to catch up. “Why don’t you come for lunch on Sunday? Then you’ll have the whole weekend to think about my offer. And bring your partner. We’d love to meet her.” He glanced back at Arwen, who sat perched on the quad like it was a horse dressed for a regal parade. She nodded encouragingly.

Faramir hesitated. He didn’t want to make Éowyn do anything she wasn’t comfortable with. But then again, as he’d noted earlier, who were Aragorn and Arwen going to tell? They weren’t from around here. They were decent people. It was just lunch. A double date.

The kind of thing normal couples did all the time.

“That sounds great,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Come round to our place,” said Arwen. “It’s rented, and we’re still unpacking, but we should be ready to cook by then.” She grinned.

“That sounds lovely. Can we bring anything?”

She arched an eyebrow. “How about a bottle of wine?”

Faramir laughed. “No pressure.”

Aragorn was still chuckling as Faramir waved farewell. A new camaraderie had grown between them, and for the first time, Faramir felt a hint of his old comfort among the vines returning.

Things might just work out after all.

#

After arriving back at the clinic, Faramir sat down at his desk to complete some paperwork, but his eyes kept straying between his phone and the watch on his wrist. Five o’clock had long since passed, and as the hands on his watch slipped ever closer to six, he stifled the worry knotting up his chest.

_It’s normal, _he thought. _She probably just got held up with a patient. _

The words in his files slipped through his brain like water down a riverbank. He checked the clock again. Quarter to six. His leg began to bounce beneath the desk.

Fortunately, it had been clear that day. No rain was expected until later in the weekend. He reminded himself of that over and over as he glanced out the office window, seeking a pair of headlights in the dark.

At last, the sound of a ute pulling up outside trickled through the walls of the clinic. Its engine idled for a while—by the stuttering, Faramir recognized Pippin’s truck, badly in need of some work—and then, as footsteps approached the back door, the engine sound peeled away.

Éowyn entered the back door a moment later. “I’m here!” She appeared in his office door. “I’m sorry, we—”

He jumped from the desk, crossing to her in two quick strides. He caught her startled look before he forgot all sense of restraint and pulled her into his arms. She smelled of crisp leaves and a hint of pipe smoke—from Gimli. He tightened his hold around her. Relief washed over him and through him, momentarily sweeping him away.

“Oh.” She returned the hug, but after a moment, she pulled back to meet his eyes. “Hello to you too.”

Faramir loosened his hold. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Her brow creased, but the look of confusion passed quickly. “Gimli got to talking about his hometown again, and we couldn’t get away.”

“Right. Of course.” Faramir cursed himself for overreacting. Of course it was something silly like that. But he’d waited once before for someone to come home, and that time, Boromir never had.

As if sensing his unease, Éowyn reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were freezing. “I’m sorry. I should have texted.”

“It’s fine. Forget it. Not your fault.” He managed a smile. But the pure, unadulterated happiness he’d been feeling in anticipation of their weekend together had faded somewhat, and he’d have to work to build it back up again.

“I just need to grab my bag,” she said, slipping back out into the darkened hallway. They were the only two left in the clinic, the others long since departed for the weekend. He saw her dark form disappear into the breakroom before she returned, bag in hand. It was rather large for a handbag, Faramir noticed, realizing for the first time that it would have to be, to contain what she needed for staying overnight.

And she’d left it in the breakroom?

She saw him looking at it as they departed the clinic and made their way across the car park. “I was going to ask if I could put it in your ute,” she said, sounding apologetic, “but I didn’t want Pippin to see.”

“He uses the breakroom too, you know,” he said. “And that’s kind of hard to miss.” She stiffened. _Shit. _“Sorry,” he added. “I didn’t mean that—the way it sounded. Forget I said anything.”

She fell silent for the remaining walk to his truck. As he unlocked her door and held it open for her, her eyes drifted up to his. Though she smiled before hopping in, it was unconvincing, not powerful enough to hide the hurt behind it. The realization plucked at his heart.

He was being stupid, letting his worry for her cloud his good mood and ruin their evening. He summoned his courage to explain, but when he opened his mouth, the smile dropped from her face.

“Don’t say it,” she said.

He paused, confused. “What?”

“I know it’s not your idea to keep this secret. All right? It’s mine. So I can’t exactly complain if—if someone notices. I know that. You don’t have to remind me.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said.

“You didn’t have to,” she countered. “I could see it on your face. And besides, I . . . I know it already.” She fiddled with the strap of her bag.

He hesitated, still clutching the open door. This wasn’t right. Not at all. He reached out and closed a hand over her nervous fingers. She stilled.

“I’m sorry, Éowyn. I’ve been an idiot. Forgive me?”

She watched his face closely, a question lingering in her eyes. But after a second, she turned her palm beneath his and wove their fingers together. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

He sucked in a breath as her fingers tightened. That wasn’t strictly too—he’d been an arse—but she seemed willing to let the moment pass, and her touch reminded him of what really mattered.

Her. Them. Being together.

He tugged her forward by their entangled fingers and caught her in a kiss. She tasted sweet like honey and cream—the lingering of her afternoon tea, maybe. He found himself shifting forward, moving into the cradle of her legs where they jutted from her seat in the ute. Her ankles clasped behind his back, and their kiss deepened.

He felt almost feverish. That’s how quickly his skin went from cool in the night air to flush and heated. His veins sang for more of her. And how easy it would be to lift her up, cup his hands around her and slide her down from the car until there was nothing pressed between them but their own bodies—

He stopped himself just short of doing that. Already his fingers had tangled themselves in her hair, almost of their own accord. She looked flushed and disheveled in the pale light of a nearby streetlamp. She was beautiful.

He tightened his grip. She leaned back into his hand, closing her eyes in a blink of pleasure. Was she as addicted as he was? Her lips parted slightly on her panted breath, and he thought it must be so.

A miracle.

“Home,” he said, clearing his throat. With a concerted effort, he managed to step away. But his blood still sang out for her as he closed her door and crossed to the driver’s side. And if he couldn’t quite walk straight on the way . . . at least he hoped she hadn’t noticed.

She wore a small smile as he climbed into his seat. Had her eyes just flicked to his groin? The thought only made his trousers feel tighter. God, he wanted her.

He wanted her . . . always.

But as the ute roared to life and he began the steady drive home, he forced himself _not _to speed through the streets of Queenstown. With steady breathing and a deliberate attention to the road, he regained some semblance of control.

He managed a glance at her. She was still smiling.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, her gaze hot on his nonetheless. Then she said, “I like this song.”

He forced his attention to the music. A violin melody poured from his radio, its strains hopeful and delicate. “The Lark Ascending,” he said. “Yes. It reminds me of you.”

“It does?”

He nodded. “It’s . . . tentative. But triumphant.”

A slight line appeared between her brows. Not a frown. More of a question. “I’m not sure that’s entirely a compliment.”

“Listen.” He turned the volume up as the violin melody swelled, orchestral horns coming in behind it. “The bird takes wing and soars.”

“I hear it.” He felt her eyes on him as they passed the next intersection, but he didn’t look over. They drove in silence for a while, save for the music and the sound of their breathing, audible during the quietest moments of the song. A few bars later, the music once again began to soar and build.

“See what I mean?” Faramir risked a glance over at her.

A flush darkened her cheeks, but she seemed pleased. “Yes.”

Relieved by her look, he was spurred to add, “ ‘The starry voice ascending spreads / awakening, as it waxes thin, / The best in us to her akin.’”

She shifted in her seat to stare at him. He caught a glimpse of wide eyes before he turned his attention back to the road, feeling rather foolish. What would Boromir say? _Spouting poetry to women only works in Hollywood and moldy old books. _

“What was that?” Éowyn asked.

“A quote from the poem that inspired the song. I fudged it a little.”

“It was beautiful.” Her voice was so quiet, he barely heard the words over the sound of the ute’s engine. Something about her stillness, her sudden contemplativeness, made his heart stutter.

Maybe, about this one thing, Boromir was, in fact, mistaken.

But Faramir decided not to push his luck. They rode on silently until he reached his neighborhood, Kelvin Heights, which jutted out onto a peninsula into Lake Wakatipu. The violin concerto faded into a cello piece by Elgar, but Éowyn didn’t lean forward to turn it down, instead shooting Faramir a curious look. She had admitted on the plane home from the North Island that she liked cello. So why was she so surprised?

Surprised that he had paid attention?

The metaphor of the cat in the corner came once again into his mind.

He turned onto his street and her look became distracted. A choked noise died in her throat. “What is it?” he asked.

“You live up here?”

“Old family home.” Heat crept up the back of his neck. The neighborhood was one of Queenstown’s best. Situated as they were on a hill above the lake, they had a view back across the water toward the city. Its gleaming lights sparkled across the dark night. Éowyn’s eyes grew even wider when they reached the end of the street and Faramir turned up his winding driveway.

“This is incredible,” she murmured.

His embarrassment grew. “Thanks,” he said, but it sounded a bit strained, even to his own ears.

“What is it?” she asked as they reached the house at last and he cut the engine.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. How to explain that this house should not be his? How to tell her that the glorious view soured as he remembered that his father had decorated the place? Full of bad memories, that’s what it was. But he didn’t need to bother Éowyn with more unpleasantness.

She was quiet as they climbed from the vehicle. He didn’t bother locking it. They were isolated enough up here that no one would bother trying to steal it. Getting up there in the first place was more trouble than the old ute was worth. Instead, he held out a hand to take Éowyn’s bag. She handed it over almost without looking, her face toward the house. She seemed a bit stunned.

“This . . . you live here alone?”

“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. Complete waste of space, if he was being honest.

“It’s . . . beautiful.”

He glanced up at the house and tried to see it through her eyes, un-besmirched by memories. He supposed it was beautiful, in its way. The outside presented an older brick façade, though the inside had been recently renovated into a sleek, modern interior. It had a certain kind of charm, he supposed, surrounded as it was by local fauna. Giant elm trees surrounding the yard sheltered the house in a world of its own.

Faramir led Éowyn up the stairs to the front door, fighting a new prick of nerves. He wanted this to go well, wanted the weekend to be everything she deserved. That meant starting out with a good impression, which he’d already bungled at the clinic. Starting now, he could do better. He let her in with renewed purpose. Yes. He would ensure that all went well.

As he toed his boots off in the wide entryway, he said, “You can leave your shoes on if you want. I just do this for comfort.”

But she was already pulling off her own boots, awe in her eyes.

“And I’ll just put your bag here for now, shall I?” He set it on a long, custom wooden table in the front hall.

She nodded, already slipping ahead of him to peek into the open-concept main floor. To their right, a huge television screen occupied the wall above a gas fireplace. To the left, an open kitchen with marble countertops (recently cleaned, thanks to last night’s labor). And ahead of them, a wall of glass doors, facing out onto the lake.

“Wow,” said Éowyn, breathlessly. She turned to face Faramir in the close confines of the hallway. “You didn’t tell me—I had no idea—”

He shrugged, feeling embarrassed again. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“No, this is definitely something. This is . . .” She was at a loss for words. He should be pleased, he knew—after all, this was better than the tension he’d provoked earlier that evening—but he wanted to tell her, _This isn’t me. _

The words wouldn’t come. Instead, he said, “Can I get you a glass of wine?”

She gazed up at him. “Is it your wine?”

“Sorry?”

A puzzled smile teased her lips. “You know. Steward family wine. Is it yours?”

He couldn’t help but return her look. “You want to taste our wine?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have any other.”

He chuckled at her sudden determination. “All right, then.” He went ahead of her into the kitchen. “Make yourself at home. I’ll pour for you.” He half-expected her to follow him, to take a seat at the barstool and watch, but instead, she began trailing around the living room, exploring. As he pulled two glasses down—trim and tapering, for the Sauvignon Blanc he was about to serve her—he realized that her mere presence was already making him like the house more. The thought of her in the other room, perhaps peering out at the balcony, or sitting on the couch waiting for him—it made him smile.

More relaxed now, he pulled a bottle from the back of his fridge. It was an older vintage, one of the last before Boromir’s death. It was considered a very good bottle. And it was already reaching its shelf life, ready to be drunk.

Prior to this moment, Faramir had never even remotely considered opening it. The very thought of consuming it alone made drinking poison sound more appealing. But now, to share it with someone he cared about . . . _That _was special.

When he crossed from the kitchen into the living area, he was surprised to find Éowyn in the corner, looking at a wall of pictures. She didn’t look away as he approached, and his sense of calm gave way to wary hesitation.

“This must be Boromir,” she said, pointing at one particular picture on the wall. “And that’s . . . ?”

Faramir handed over her glass of wine. His own glass felt cold and clammy in his grasp. “My father.”

He caught her sharp intake of breath. “Of course. They look so much alike.”

Faramir nodded.

“But so do you and Boromir. Same smile.” She turned to him, watching his face closely, as if she knew this would hurt. But, at the same time, it was a relief to have the conversation. To talk about his brother, even though he was gone.

“Thanks,” he said, trying to imbue the word with his appreciation for her thoughtfulness.

She dropped her gaze to the wine in her hand. “So. Tell me about the wine.”

He shot her a grateful look for the change of subject. “The grape is Sauvignon Blanc,” he said. “We’re—historically—known for that. The word ‘Sauvignon’ comes from the French for ‘wild’ . . .”

“Sauvage,” she finished for him. His eyebrows flicked up in surprise. In response, she said, “I studied French in school. It’s in the blood.”

Of course. _De Rouen. _Her surname told of French ancestry. He nodded. “It’s in mine, too.”

“Really?” She grinned at him over her glass.

“Where do you think we got our winemaking genes from?” He swirled his glass to emphasize the words, and she did the same.

“So, what should I be tasting?” she asked.

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“The whole point was for you to teach me,” she said.

“Try it,” he pressed her. “There are no wrong answers.”

She shot him a doubtful look, but sniffed her glass tentatively before taking a tiny sip. She ran the wine over her tongue, working her mouth a bit to prolong her experience of the wine’s flavor and texture. There was something very sensual about watching her do this, he thought, his eyes pinned to her lips for a second too long. _That _was a side of wine tasting he’d certainly never experienced before. She swallowed her sip, her pale throat tightening as she did so, and he felt his own tongue go dry in return.

“Right,” he said, his voice a bit strained to his own ears. “What did you taste?”

“Something . . . sharp. Almost peppery?” 

He nodded. “Green pepper.”

“And a bit of sweetness, too. Something citrusy.”

“Lemongrass and gooseberry.” He shot her a rewarding grin. “See? You know what you’re doing. You don’t need me at all.”

Her gray eyes were soft and serious. “I wouldn’t say that,” she said.

There was that sudden dryness in his mouth again. She stepped nearer, and he felt the faintest heat from her presence, her soft curves just centimeters from his touch. Without looking away from him, she set her wine glass on a nearby endtable and reached up, her fingers slipping around the back of his neck. He held his glass out of the way and allowed himself, spellbound, to be pulled down to meet her kiss.

She tasted of his own wine, sweet and heady and absolutely intoxicating. Who needed a glass when he could kiss it straight from her lips? A moan escaped him, and like alchemy, it transformed the kiss from something warm into something molten. He was moments from catching fire. He tugged her to him with his free arm, her body heat flooding him from the chest down. She tangled her hands in his hair, giving him a gentle tug that overwhelmed him with need. He wanted to be pressed even closer, skin to skin. He wanted to trace her pulse with his lips, to suck sounds of pleasure from her throat. He wanted to feel her unravel for him—as he was unraveling for her.

“Éowyn,” he breathed. He could drown in her name and still he’d never tire of it.

Without breaking their kiss, she tugged him backward until he gently trapped her against the wall. He used the opportunity to deposit his glass next to hers, leaving his hands free to explore. His fingertips found the side of her neck, stroking upward, enjoying the softness of her skin. Like rose petals. Like velvet.

She gasped against his lips and kissed him back with a ferocity he didn’t expect. All their pent-up tension from earlier in the evening seemed to come out in her kiss, and here, at least, they understood one another.

Perfectly.

He growled, caging her in with his body. She leaned her hips into his in response, and her breath hitched at what she found there. His, too. They’d long since crossed over into something dangerous, and he didn’t want to go back.

His hand trailed down her leg, hooking under her knee. When he brought it up to curve around his waist, her fingers tightened in his hair. A jolt ran through his body as he fitted himself up against her, sliding into place between her thighs. He’d all but forgotten there were clothes between them. Perhaps he’d half expected them to be burned away.

She pulled back a little to see his face, her eyes dark with desire. 

“God, Éowyn. You’re so . . .” What? What word could possibly fit there? She was everything, all at once. She waited, already looking a little bit disheveled, a little bit ravaged. And he was just getting started.

Then his phone rang.

“Shit.” He dug into his pocket, silenced the phone without looking, and tossed it on the endtable beside their glasses. She started a little at the sound, but then he began to kiss her neck again. “I’m sorry,” he murmured to her.

She softened. “It’s fine.” Her voice was hoarse.

He knew exactly how she felt.

He wanted her in his bed, in his arms, tangling with him for the rest of the weekend. Forget food. Forget anything else. Only her.

“This way,” he said, reaching for her hand, breathless, and her fingers tangled with his. She didn’t even hesitate. His pulse surged, heat pushing at the edges of his vision.

Then the phone rang again.

He froze. Only certain calls got through on silent. In case of emergency. And he wasn’t on call that weekend. That particular joy had fallen on Pippin again.

So it could only be one person calling.

Just like that, his veins froze in place. “Just a second,” he said, dropping Éowyn’s hand to pick up his mobile. “I’m sorry about this—”

The apology died on his tongue as he read the name across the screen.

“What is it?” Éowyn asked, her voice sharp and worried. She was watching his face.

He cleared his throat. “It’s my dad,” he said.

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing kills the vibe quite like a call from Denethor... haha. 
> 
> The music that Faramir and Éowyn listen to in the car is The Lark Ascending by Ralph Vaughn Williams. The poem that Faramir quotes from is of the same title by George Meredith. Like him... I fudged it a little :D


End file.
